|)allock  Jocte. 


THE  LED-HORSE  CLAIM.  A  Romance  of  a 
Mining  Camp.  Illustrated  by$  the  Author. 
i6mo,  $i  25  ;  paper,  50  cents. 

JOHN  BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY.  i2mo,$i.so; 
paper,  50  cents. 

THE   LAST  ASSEMBLY  BALL,  and  THE  FATE 

OF  A  VOICE.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
THE  CHOSEN   VALLEY.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
IN     EXILE,    AND     OTHER    STORIES.      i6mo, 

$1.25. 

HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


IN   EXILE,  Ai\D   OTHER 
STORIES 


BY 


MARY   HALLOCK   FOOTE 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 


1894 


Copyright,  1894, 
BY  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Eiverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  V.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  and  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

IN  EXILE 1 

FRIEND  BARTON'S  "  CONCERN  "  .  .  .  .  59 
THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR  ....  127 
A  CLOUD  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  ....  147 

THE  RAPTURE  OF  HETTY 199 

THE  WATCHMAN 210 


£9266718 


IE"  EXILE. 


NICKY  DYER  and  the  schoolmistress  sat 
upon  the  slope  of  a  hill,  one  of  a  low  range 
overlooking  an  arid  Californian  valley. 
These  sunburnt  slopes  were  traversed  by 
many  narrow  footpaths,  descending,  ascend 
ing,  winding  among  the  tangle  of  poison  - 
oak  and  wild-rose  bushes,  leading  from  the 
miners'  cabins  to  the  shaft-houses  and  tun 
nels  of  the  mine  which  gave  to  the  hills 
their  only  importance.  Nicky  was  a  stout 
Cornish  lad  of  thirteen,  with  large  light 
eyes  that  seemed  mildly  to  protest  against 
the  sportive  relation  which  a  broad,  frec 
kled,  turned-up  nose  bore  to  the  rest  of  his 
countenance ;  he  was  doing  nothing  in  par 
ticular,  and  did  it  as  if  he  were  used  to 
it.  The  schoolmistress  sat  with  her  skirts 
tucked  round  her  ankles,  the  heels  of  her 
stout  little  boots  driven  well  into  the  dry, 


IN  EXILE. 


gritty  soil.  There  was  in  her  attitude  the 
u-  tension  of  some  slight  habitual  strain  —  per 
haps  of  endurance  —  as  she  leaned  forward, 
her  arms  stretched  straight  before  her,  with 
her  delicate  fingers  interlocked.  Whatever 
may  be  the  type  of  Californian  young  wo 
manhood,  it  was  not  her  type;  you  felt, 
looking  at  her  cool,  clear  tints  and  slight, 
straight  outlines,  that  she  had  winter  in  her 
blood. 

She  was  gazing  down  into  the  valley,  as 
one  looks  at  a  landscape  who  has  not  yet 
mastered  all  its  changes  of  expression;  its 
details  were  blurred  in  the  hot,  dusty  glare; 
the  mountains  opposite  had  faded  to  a  flat 
outline  against  the  indomitable  sky.  A 
light  wind  blew  up  the  slope,  flickering 
the  pale  leaves  of  a  manzanita,  whose  bur 
nished,  cinnamon -colored  stems  glowed  in 
the  sun.  As  the  breeze  strengthened,  the 
young  girl  stood  up,  lifting  her  arms,  to 
welcome  its  coolness  on  her  bare  wrists. 

"Nicky,  why  do  the  trees  in  that  hollow 
between  the  hills  look  so  green?" 

"There  '11  be  water  over  there,  miss; 
that 's  the  Chilano's  spring.  I  'm  thinkin' 
the  old  cow  might  'a'  strayed  over  that 
way  somewheres ;  they  mostly  goes  for  the 
water,  wherever  it  is." 


IN  EXILE.  3 

"Is  it  running  water,  Nicky,  — not  water 
in  a  tank?" 

"Why,  no,  miss;  it  cooms  right  out  o' 
the  rock  as  pretty  as  iver  you  saw !  I  often 
goes  there  myself  for  a  drink,  cos  it  tastes 
sort  o'  different,  coomin'  out  o'  the  ground 
like.  We  wos  used  to  that  kind  o'  water 
at  'ome." 

"Let  us  go,  Nicky,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
should  like  to  taste  that  water,  too.  Do 
we  cross  the  hill  first,  or  is  there  a  shorter 
way?" 

"Over  the  'ill  's  the  shortest,  miss.  It 's 
a  bit  of  a  ways,  but  you 've  been  longer 
ways  nor  they  for  less  at  th'  end  on  't." 

They  "tacked"  down  the  steepest  part  of 
the  hill,  and  waded  through  a  shady  hollow, 
where  ferns  grew  rank  and  tall,  —  crisp, 
faded  ferns,  with  an  aromatic  odor  which 
escaped  by  the  friction  of  their  garments, 
like  the  perfume  of  warmed  amber.  They 
reached  at  length  the  green  trees,  a  clump 
of  young  cottonwoods  at  the  entrance  to  a 
narrow  canon,  and  followed  the  dry  bed  of 
a  stream  for  some  distance,  until  water  be 
gan  to  show  among  the  stones.  The  princi 
pal  outlet  of  the  spring  was  on  a  small  plan 
tation  at  the  head  of  the  caiion,  rented  of 


4  IN  EXILE. 

the  "company"  by  a  Chilian,  or  "the  Chi- 
lano,"  as  he  was  called;  he  was  not  at  all 
a  pastoral-looking  personage,  but,  with  the 
aid  of  his  good  water,  he  earned  a  moder 
ately  respectable  living  by  supplying  the 
neighboring  cabins  and  the  miners'  board 
ing-house  with  green  vegetables.  After  a 
temporary  disappearance,  as  if  to  purge  its 
memory  of  the  Chilaiio's  water-buckets,  the 
spring  again  revealed  itself  in  a  thin,  clear 
trickle  down  the  hollowed  surface  of  a  rock 
which  closed  the  narrow  passage  of  the 
canon.  Young  sycamores  and  cottonwoods 
shut  out  the  sun  above ;  their  tangled  roots, 
interlaced  with  vines  still  green  and  grow 
ing,  trailed  over  the  edge  of  the  rock,  where 
a  mass  of  earth  had  fallen ;  green  moss  lined 
the  hollows  of  the  rock,  and  water-plants 
grew  in  the  dark  pools  below. 

The  strollers  had  left  behind  them  the 
heat  and  glare;  only  the  breeze  followed 
them  into  this  green  stillness,  stirring  the 
boughs  overhead  and  scattering  spots  of 
sunlight  over  the  wet  stones.  Nicky,  after 
enjoying  for  a  few  moments  the  schoolmis 
tress'  surprised  delight,  proposed  that  she 
should  wait  for  him  at  the  spring,  while  he 
went  "down  along"  in  search  of  his  cow. 


IN  EXILE.  5 

Nicky  was  not  without  a  certain  awe  of  the 
schoolmistress,  as  a  part  of  creation  he  had 
not  fathomed  in  all  its  bearings ;  but  when 
they  rambled  on  the  hills  together,  he  found 
himself  less  uneasily  conscious  of  her  per 
sonality,  and  more  comfortably  aware  of 
the  fact  that,  after  all,  she  was  "iiothin'  but 
a  woman."  He  was  a  trifle  disappointed 
that  she  showed  no  uneasiness  at  being  left 
alone,  but  consoled  himself  by  the  reflection 
that  she  was  "a  good  un  to  'old  'er  tongue," 
and  probably  felt  more  than  she  expressed. 
The  schoolmistress  did  not  look  in  the 
least  disconsolate  after  Nicky's  departure. 
She  gazed  about  her  very  contentedly  for  a 
while,  and  then  prepared  to  help  herself  to 
a  drink  of  water.  She  hollowed  her  two 
hands  into  a  cup,  and  waited  for  it  to  fill, 
stooping  below  the  rock,  her  lifted  skirt 
held  against  her  side  by  one  elbow,  while  she 
watched  with  a  childish  eagerness  the  water 
trickle  into  her  pink  palms.  Miss  Frances 
Newell  had  never  looked  prettier  in  her  life.  <• 
A  pretty  girl  is  always  prettier  in  the  open 
air,  with  her  head  uncovered.  Her  checks 
were  red;  the  sun  just  touched  the  rough 
ened  braids  of  dark  brown  hair,  and  inten 
sified  the  glow  of  a  little  ear  which  showed 


6  IN  EXILE. 

beneath.  She  stooped  to  drink;  but  Miss 
Frances  was  destined  never  to  taste  that 
virgin  cup  of  water.  There  was  a  tram 
pling  among  the  bushes,  overhead ;  a  little 
shower  of  dust  and  pebbles  pattered  down 
upon  her  bent  head,  soiling  the  water.  She 
let  her  hands  fall  as  she  looked  up,  with  a 
startled  "Oh!  "  A  pair  of  large  boots  were 
rapidly  making  their  way  down  the  bank, 
and  the  cause  of  all  this  disturbance  stood 
before  her,  —  a  young  man  in  a  canvas 
jacket,  with  a  leathern  case  slung  across  his 
shoulder,  and  a  small  tin  lamp  fastened  in 
front  of  the  hat  which  he  took  off  while  he 
apologized  to  the  girl  for  his  intrusion. 

"Miss  Newell!  Forgive  me  for  dropping 
down  on  you  like  a  thousand  of  brick! 
You  've  found  the  spring,  I  see." 

Miss  Frances  stood  with  her  elbows  still 
pressed  to  her  sides,  though  her  skirt  had 
slipped  down  into  the  water,  her  wet  palms 
helplessly  extended.  "I  was  getting  a 
drink,"  she  said,  searching  with  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  among  the  folds  of  her  dress  for 
a  handkerchief.  "You  came  just  in  time 
to  remind  me  of  the  slip  between  the  cup 
and  the  lip." 

"  I  'm  very  sorry,  but  there  is  plenty  of 


IN  EXILE.  7 

water  left.  I  came  for  some  myself.  Let 
me  help  you."  He  took  from  one  of  the 
many  pockets  stitched  into  the  breast  and 
sides  of  his  jacket  a  covered  flask,  detached 
the  cup,  and,  after  carefully  rinsing,  filled 
and  handed  it  to  the  girl.  "I  hope  it 
doesn't  taste  of  'store  claret;'  the  water 
underground  is  just  a  shade  worse  than  that 
exalted  vintage." 

"It  is  delicious,  thank  you,  and  it  doesn't 
taste  in  the  least  of  claret.  Have  you  just 
come  out  of  the  mine?  " 

"Yes.  It  is  measuring-up  day.  I've 
been  toddling  through  the  drifts  and  slid 
ing  down  chiflons"  -he  looked  ruefully  at 
the  backs  of  his  trousers  legs  —  "ever  since 
seven  o'clock  this  morning.  Have  n't  had 
time  to  eat  any  luncheon  yet,  you  see."  He 
took  from  another  pocket  a  small  package 
folded  in  a  coarse  napkin.  "I  came  here 
to  satisfy  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  enjoy 
the  beauties  of  nature  at  the  same  time,  - 
such  nature  as  we  have  here.  Will  you  ex 
cuse  me,  Miss  Newell?  I  '11  promise  to  eat 
very  fast." 

"I  '11  excuse  you  if  you  will  not  ask  me 
to  eat  with  you." 

"Oh,  I've  entirely  too  much  considera- 


8  IN  EXILE. 

tion  for  myself  to  think  of  such  a  thing; 
there  isn't  enough  for  two." 

He  seated  himself,  with  a  little  sigh,  and 
opened  the  napkin  on  the  ground  before 
him.  Miss  Newell  stood  leaning  against  a 
rock  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  brook,  re 
garding  the  young  man  with  a  shy  and  smil 
ing  curiosity.  "Meals,"  he  continued,  "are 
a  reckless  tribute  to  the  weakness  of  the 
flesh  we  all  engage  in  three  times  a  day  at 
the  boarding-house;  a  man  must  eat,  you 
know,  if  he  expects  to  live.  Have  you  ever 
tried  any  of  Mrs.  Bondy's  fare,  Miss 
Newell?" 

"I'm  sure  Mrs.  Bondy  tries  to  have 
everything  very  nice,"  the  young  girl  re 
plied,  with  some  embarrassment. 

"  Of  course  she  does ;  she  is  a  very  good 
old  girl.  I  think  a  great  deal  of  Mrs. 
Bondy;  but  when  she  asks  me  if  I  have  en 
joyed  my  dinner,  I  always  make  a  point  of 
telling  her  the  truth ;  she  respects  me  for  it. 
This  is  her  idea  of  sponge  cake,  you  see." 
He  held  up  admiringly  a  damp  slab  of  some 
compact  pale-yellow  substance,  with  crumbs 
of  bread  adhering  to  one  side.  "It  is  a  lit 
tle  mashed,  but  otherwise  a  fair  specimen." 
Miss  Frances  laughed.  "Mr.  Arnold,  I 


IN  EXILE,  9 

p* 

think  you  are  too  bad.  How  can  she  help 
it,  with  those  dreadful  Chinamen?  But  l' 
would  really  advise  you  not  to  eat  that 
cake;  it  doesn't  look  wholesome." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I ' ve  never  observed  any 
difference;  one  thing  is  about  as  wholesome 
as  another.  Did  you  ever  eat  bacon  fried 
by  China  Sam  ?  The  sandwiches  were  made 
of  that.  You  see  I  still  live."  The  sponge 
cake  was  rapidly  disappearing.  "Miss 
Newell,  you  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  making 
away  with  myself,  instead  of  the  cake,  - 
will  you  appear  at  the  inquest?" 

"No,  I  will  not  testify  to  anything  so  un- 
romantic ;  besides,  it  might  be  inconvenient 
for  Mrs.  Bondy's  cook."  She  put  on  her 
hat,  and  stepped  along  the  stones  towards 
the  entrance  to  the  glen. 

"You  are  not  going  to  refuse  me  the  last 
offices?" 

"I  am  going  to  look  for  Nicky  Dyer. 
He  came  with  me  to  show  me  the  spring, 
and  now  he  has  gone  to  hunt  for  his  cow." 

"And  you  are  going  to  hunt  for  him?  I 
hope  you  won't  try  it,  Miss  Frances:  a  boy 
on  the  track  of  a  cow  is  a  very  uncertain 
object  in  life.  Let  me  call  him,  if  you 
really  must  have  him." 


10  IN  EXILE. 

"Oh,  don't  trouble  yourself.  I  suppose 
he  will  come  after  a  while.  I  said  I  would 
wait  for  him  here." 

"Then  permit  me  to  say  that  I  think  you 
had  better  do  as  you  promised." 

Miss  Frances  recrossed  the  stones,  and 
seated  herself,  with  a  faint  deprecatory 
smile. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  if  I  stay,"  Ar 
nold  said,  moving  some  loose  stones  to  make 
her  seat  more  comfortable.  "You  have  the 
prior  right  to-day,  but  this  is  an  old  haunt 
of  mine.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  doing  the  hon 
ors  ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  rather 
used  up.  The  new  workings  are  very  hot 
and  the  drifts  are  low.  It 's  a  combination 
of  steam-bath  and  hoeing  corn." 

The  girl's  face  cleared,  as  she  looked  at 
him.  His  thin  cheek  was  pale  under  the 
tan,  and  where  his  hat  was  pushed  back  the 
hair  clung  in  damp  points  to  his  forehead 
and  temples. 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to  drive  you 
away,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you  looked 
tired.  If  you  want  to  go  to  sleep,  or  any 
thing,  I  will  promise  to  be  very  quiet." 

Arnold  laughed.  "Oh,  I  'm  not  such  an 
utter  wreck;  but  I  'm  glad  you  can  be  very 


IN  EXILE.  11 

quiet.  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  a  little 
uproarious  at  times,  you  know." 

The  girl  gave  a  sudden  shy  laugh.  It 
was  really  a  giggle,  but  a  very  sweet,  girl 
ish  giggle.  It  called  up  a  look  of  keen 
pleasure  to  Arnold's  face. 

"Now  I  call  this  decidedly  gay,"  he  re 
marked,  stretching  out  his  long  legs  slowly, 
and  leaning  against  a  slanting  rock,  with 
one  arm  behind  his  head.  "Miss  Frances, 
will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  that  my 
face  isn't  dirty?" 

"Truth  compels  me  to  admit  that  you 
have  one  little  daub  over  your  left  eye 
brow." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Arnold,  rubbing  it 
languidly  with  his  handkerchief.  His  hat 
had  dropped  off,  and  he  did  not  replace  it; 
he  did  not  look  at  the  girl,  but  let  his  eyes 
rest  on  the  thread  of  falling  water  that 
gleamed  from  the  spring.  Miss  Frances, 
regarding  him  with  some  timidity,  thought : 
How  much  younger  he  looks  without  his 
hat !  He  had  that  sensitive  fairness  which 
in  itself  gives  a  look  of  youth  and  purity; 
the  sternness  of  his  face  lay  in  the  curves 
which  showed  under  his  mustache,  and  in 
the  silent,  dominant  eye. 


12  IN-  EXILE. 

"You've  no  idea  how  good  it  sounds  to 
a  lonely  fellow  like  me,"  he  said,  "to  hear 
a  girl's  laugh." 

"But  there  are  a  great  many  women 
here,"  Miss  Frances  observed. 

"Oh  yes,  there  are  women  everywhere, 
such  as  they  are ;  but  it  takes  a  nice  girl,  a 
lady,  to  laugh! " 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  replied 
Miss  Frances  coldly.  "  Some  of  those 
Mexican  women  have  the  sweetest  voices, 
speaking  or  laughing,  that  I  have  ever 
heard;  and  the  Cornish  women,  too,  have 
very  fresh,  pure  voices.  I  often  listen  to 
them  in  the  evening  when  I  sit  alone  in  my 
room.  Their  voices  sound  so  happy  " 

"Well,  then  it  is  the  home  accent, — or 
I  'm  prejudiced.  Don't  laugh  again,  please, 
Miss  Frances;  it  breaks  me  all  up."  He 
moved  his  head  a  little,  and  looked  across 
at  the  girl  to  assure  himself  that  her  silence 
did  riot  mean  disapproval.  "I  admit,"  he 
went  on,  "that  I  like  our  Eastern  girls.  I 
know  you  are  from  the  East,  Miss  Newell." 

"I  am  from  what  I  used  to  think  was 
East,"  she  said,  smiling.  "But  everything 
is  East  here;  people  from  Indiana  and  Wis 
consin  say  they  are  from  the  East." 


IN  EXILE.  13 

"Ah,  but  you  are  from  our  old  Atlantic 
coast.  I  was  sure  of  it  when  I  first  saw 
you.  If  you  will  pardon  me,  I  knew  it  by 
your  way  of  dressing." 

The  young  girl  flushed  with  pleasure; 
then,  with  a  reflective  air :  "  I  confess  my 
self,  since  you  speak  of  clothes,  to  a  feeling 
of  relief  when  I  saw  your  hat  the  first  Sun 
day  after  I  came.  Western  men  wear  such 
dreadful  hats." 

"Good!"  he  cried  gayly.  "You  mean 
my  hat  that  I  call  a  hat."  He  reached  for 
the  one  behind  his  head,  and  spun  it  lightly 
upward,  where  it  settled  on  a  projecting 
branch.  "  I  respect  that  hat  myself,  —  my 
other  hat,  I  mean ;  I  'm  trying  to  live  up  to 
it.  Now,  let  me  guess  your  State,  Miss 
Newell:  is  it  Massachusetts?" 

"  No,  —  Connecticut ;  but  at  this  distance 
it  seems  like  the  same  thing." 

"Oh,  pardon  me,  there  are  very  decided 
differences.  I  'm  from  Massachusetts  my 
self.  Perhaps  the  points  of  difference  show 
more  in  the  women,  —  the  ones  who  stay  at 
home,  I  mean,  and  become  more  local  and 
idiomatic  than  the  men.  You  are  not  one 
of  the  daughters  of  the  soil,  Miss  Newell." 

She  looked  pained  as  she  said,  "I  wish  I 


14  IN  EXILE. 

were;  but  there  is  not  room  for  us  all, 
where  there  is  so  little  soil." 

Arnold  moved  uneasily,  extracted  a  stone 
from  under  the  small  of  his  back  and  tossed 
it  out  of  sight  with  some  vehemence.  "You 
think  it  goes  rather  hard  with  women  who 
are  uprooted,  then,"  he  said.  "I  suppose 
it  is  something  a  roving  man  can  hardly 
conceive  of, — a  woman's  attachment  to 
places,  and  objects,  and  associations;  they 
are  like  cats." 

Miss  Newell  was  silent. 

Arnold  moved  restlessly;  then  began 
again,  with  his  eyes  still  on  the  trickle  of 
water:  "Miss  Newell,  do  you  remember  a 
poem  —  I  think  it  is  Bryant's  —  called  '  The 
Hunter  of  the  Prairies  '?  It 's  no  disgrace 
not  to  remember  it,  and  it  may  not  be  Bry 
ant's." 

"I  remember  seeing  it,  but  I  never  read 
it.  I  always  skipped  those  Western  things." 

Arnold  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  said, 
"  Well,  you  are  punished,  you  see,  by  going 
West  yourself  to  hear  me  repeat  it  to  you. 
I  think  I  can  give  you  the  idea  in  the  Hun 
ter's  own  words:  — 

" '  Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  f or  me  ' "  — 


IN  EXILE.  15 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  in  the  stillness 
of  the  little  glen,  and  a  look  of  surprise 
in  the  young  girl's  quiet  eyes,  brought  a 
sudden  access  of  color  to  Arnold's  face. 
"Hm-m-m,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "it 's 
queer  how  rhymes  slip  away.  Well,  the 
last  line  ends  in  free.  You  see,  it  is  a 
man's  idea  of  happiness,  —a  young  man's. 
Now,  how  do  you  suppose  she  liked  it,  — 
the  girl,  you  know,  who  left  the  world,  and 
all  that?  Did  you  ever  happen  to  see  a 
poem  or  a  story,  written  by  a  woman,  cele 
brating  the  joys  of  a  solitary  existence  with 
the  man  of  her  heart?" 

"I  suppose  that  many  a  woman  has  tried 
it,"  Miss  Newell  said  evasively,  "but  I'm 
sure  she"  — 

"Never  lived  to  tell  the  tale?  "  cried  Ar 
nold. 

"  She  probably  had  something  else  to  do, 
while  the  hunter  was  riding  around  with  his 
gun,"  Miss  Frances  continued. 

"Well,  give  her  the  odds  of  the  rifle  and 
the  steed ;  give  the  man  some  commonplace 
employment  to  take  the  swagger  out  of  him ; 
let  him  come  home  reasonably  tired  and 
cross  at  night,  —  do  you  suppose  he  would 
find  the  'kind'  eyes  and  the  'smile'?  I 


16  IN  EXILE. 

forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  Hunter  of  the 
Prairies  is  always  welcomed  by  a  smile  at 
night." 

"He  must  have  been  an  uncommonly  for 
tunate  man,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  he  was ;  but  the  question  is : 
Could  any  living  man  be  so  fortunate? 
Come,  Miss  Frances,  don't  prevaricate!  " 

"Well,  am  I  speaking  for  the  average 
woman?" 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  —  you  are  speaking  for 
the  very  nicest  of  women;  any  other  kind 
would  be  intolerable  on  a  prairie." 

"I  should  think,  if  she  were  very  healthy," 
said  Miss  Newell,  hesitating  between  mis 
chief  and  shyness,  "and  not  too  imagina 
tive,  and  of  a  cheerful  disposition;  and  if 
he,  the  hunter,  were  above  the  average,  — 
supposing  that  she  cared  for  him  in  the  be 
ginning,  —  I  should  think  the  smile  might 
last  a  year  or  two." 

"Heavens,  what  a  cynic  you  are!  I  feel 
like  a  mere  daub  of  sentiment  beside  you. 
There  have  been  moments,  do  you  know, 
even  in  this  benighted  mining  camp,  when  I 
have  believed  in  that  hunter  and  his  smile !  " 

He  got  up  suddenly,  and  stood  against 
the  rock,  facing  her.  Although  he  kept 


IN  EXILE.  17 

his  cool,  bantering  tone,  his  breathing  had 
quickened,  and  his  eyes  looked  darker. 
"  You  may  consider  me  a  representative 
man,  if  you  please:  I  speak  for  hundreds  of 
us  scattered  about  in  mining  camps  and  on 
cattle  ranches,  in  lighthouses  and  frontier 
farms  and  military  posts,  and  all  the  God 
forsaken  holes  you  can  conceive  of,  where 
men  are  trying  to  earn  a  living,  or  lose  one, 

we  are  all  going  to  the  dogs  for  the  want 

of  that  smile !  What  is  to  become  of  us  if 
the  women  whose  smiles  we  care  for  cannot 
support  life  in  the  places  where  we  have  to 
live?  Come,  Miss  Frances,  can't  you  make 
that  smile  last  at  least  two  years?"  He 
gathered  a  handful  of  dry  leaves  from  a 
broken  branch  above  his  head  and  crushed 
them  in  his  long  hands,  sifting  the  yellow 
dust  upon  the  water  below. 

"The  places  you  speak  of  are  very  differ 
ent,"  the  girl  answered,  with  a  shade  of  un 
easiness  in  her  manner.  "A  mining  camp 
is  anything  but  a  solitude,  and  a  military 
post  may  be  very  gay." 

"Oh,  the  principle  is  the  same.  It  is 
the  absolute  giving  up  of  everything.  You 
know  most  women  require  a  background  of 
family  and  friends  and  congenial  surround- 


18  IN  EXILE. 

ings;  the  question  is  whether  any  woman 
can  do  without  them." 

The  young  girl  moved  in  a  constrained 
way,  and  flushed  as  she  said,  "It  must  al 
ways  be  an  experiment,  I  suppose,  and  its 
success  would  depend,  as  I  said  before,  on 
the  woman  and  on  the  man." 

"An  'experiment'  is  good!"  said  Ar 
nold,  rather  savagely.  "I  see  you  won't 
say  anything  you  can't  swear  to." 

"I  really  do  not  see  that  I  am  called 
upon  to  say  anything  on  the  subject  at  all!  " 
said  the  girl,  rising  and  looking  at  him 
across  the  brook  with  indignant  eyes  and  a 
hot  glow  on  her  cheek. 

He  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  annoy 
ance. 

"You  are,  because  you  know  something 
about  it,  and  most  women  don't:  your  tes 
timony  is  worth  something.  How  long  have 
you  been  here,  —  a  year?  I  wonder  how  it 
seems  to  a  woman  to  live  in  a  place  like 
this  a  year !  I  hate  it  all,  you  know,  —  I  've 
seen  so  much  of  it.  But  is  there  really  any 
beauty  here?  I  suppose  beauty,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  is  partly  within  us,  isn't 
it?  —  at  least,  that's  what  the  goody  little 
poems  tell  us." 


IN  EXILE.  19 

"I  think  it  is  very  beautiful  here,"  said 
Miss  Frances,  softening,  as  he  laid  aside  his 
strained  manner,  and  spoke  more  quietly.' 
"It  is  the  kind  of  place  a  happy  woman 
might  be  very  happy  in;  but  if  she  were 
sacl  —  or  —  disappointed  " 

"  Well?  "  said  Arnold,  pulling  at  his  mus 
tache,  and  fixing  a  rather  gloomy  gaze  upon 
her. 

"She  would  die  of  it!  I  really  do  not 
think  there  would  be  any  hope  for  her  in  a 
place  like  this." 

"But  if  she  were  happy,  as  you  say," 
persisted  the  young  man,  "don't  you  think 
her  woman's  adaptability  and  quick  imagi 
nation  would  help  her  immensely?  She 
wouldn't  see  what  I,  for  instance,  know 
to  be  ugly  and  coarse ;  her  very  ignorance 
of  the  world  would  help  her." 

There  was  a  vague,  pleading  look  in  his 
eyes.      "Arrange  it  to  suit  yourself,"   she 
said.      "Only,  I  can  assure  you,  if  anything 
should  happen  to  her,  it  will  be  the  —  the-^ 
hunter's  fault." 

"All  right,"  said  he,  rousing  himself. 
"That  hunter,  if  I  know  him,  is  a  man  who 
is  used  to  taking  risks!  Where  are  you 
going?" 


20  IN  EXILE. 

"X  thought  I  heard  Nicky." 

They  were  both  silent,  and  as  they  lis 
tened,  footsteps,  with  a  tinkling  accompani 
ment,  crackled  among  the  bushes  below  the 
canon.  Miss  Newell  turned  towards  the 
spring  again.  "I  want  one  more  drink 
before  I  go,"  she  said. 

Arnold  followed  her.  "Let  us  drink  to 
our  return.  Let  this  be  our  fountain  of 
Trevi." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Frances.  "Don't 
you  remember  what  your  favorite  Bryant 
says  about  bringing  the  'faded  fancies  of  an 
elder  world  '  into  these  'virgin  solitudes  '  ?" 

"Faded  fancies!"  cried  Arnold.  "Do 
you  call  that  a  faded  fancy  ?  It  is  as  fresh 
and  graceful  as  youth  itself,  and  as  natural. 
I  should  have  thought  of  it  myself,  if  there 
had  been  no  fountain  of  Trevi." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  smiled  the  girl. 
"Then  imagination,  it  would  seem,  is  not 
entirely  confined  to  homesick  women." 

"Come,  fill  the  cup,  Miss  Frances! 
Nicky  is  almost  here." 

The  girl  held  her  hands  beneath  the 
trickle  again,  until  they  were  brimming 
with  the  clear  sweet  water. 

"Drink  first,"  said  Arnold. 


IN  EXILE.  21 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to  return," 
she  replied,  smiling,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
space  of  sky  between  the  treetops. 

"Nonsense,  —  you  must  be  morbid. 
Drink,  drink!" 

"Drink  yourself;  the  water  is  all  run 
ning  away! " 

He  bent  his  head,  and  took  a  vigorous  sip 
of  the  water,  holding  his  hands  beneath 
hers,  inclosing  the  small  cup  in  the  larger 
one.  The  small  cup  trembled  a  little.  He 
was  laughing  and  wiping  his  mustache, 
when  Nicky  appeared;  and  Miss  Frances, 
suddenly  brightening  and  recovering  her 
freedom  of  movement,  exclaimed,  "Why, 
Nicky!  You  have  been  forever!  We 
must  go  at  once,  Mr.  Arnold ;  so  good-by ! 
I  hope  " 

She  did  not  say  what  she  hoped,  and 
Arnold,  after  looking  at  her  with  an  inter 
rogative  smile  a  moment,  caught  his  hat 
from  the  branch  overhead,  and  made  her  a 
great  nourishing  bow  with  it  in  his  hand. 

He  did  not  follow  her,  pushing  her  way 
through  the  swaying,  rustling  ferns,  but 
he  watched  her  light  figure  out  of  sight. 
"What  an  extraordinary  ass  I  've  been 
making  of  myself!"  He  confided  this  re- 


22  IN  EXILE. 

mark  to  the  stillness  of  the  little  canon,  and 
then,  with  long  strides,  took  his  way  over 
the  hills  in  an  opposite  direction. 

It  was  the  middle  of  July  when  this  little 
episode  of  the  spring  occurred.  The  sum 
mer  had  reached  its  climax.  The  dust  did 
not  grow  perceptibly  deeper,  nor  the  fields 
browner,  during  the  long  brazen  weeks  that 
followed;  one  only  wearied  of  it  all,  more 
and  more. 

So  thought  Miss  Newell,  at  least.  It 
was  her  second  summer  in  California,  and 
the  phenomenon  of  the  dry  season  was  not 
so  impressive  on  its  repetition.  She  had 
been  surprised  to  observe  how  very  brief 
had  been  the  charm  of  strangeness,  in  her 
experience  of  life  in  a  new  country.  She 
began  to  wonder  if  a  girl,  born  and  brought 
up  among  the  hills  of  Connecticut,  could 
have  the  seeds  of  ennui  subtly  distributed 
through  her  frame,  to  reach  a  sudden  devel 
opment  in  the  heat  of  a  Californian  sum 
mer.  She  longed  for  the  rains  to  begin, 
that  in  their  violence  and  the  sound  of  the 
wind  she  might  gain  a  sense  of  life  in  ac 
tion  by  which  to  eke  out  her  dull  and  ex 
pressionless  days.  She  was,  as  Nicky  Dyer 
had  said,  "a  good  un  to  'old  'er  tongue," 


IN  EXILE.  23 

and  therein  lay  her  greatest  strength  as  well 
as  her  greatest  danger. 

Miss  Newell  boarded  at  Captain  Dyer's. 
The  prosperous  ex-mining  captain  was  a 
good  deal  nearer  to  the  primitive  type  than 
any  man  Miss  Newell  had  ever  sat  at  table 
with  in  her  life 'before,  "but  she  had  a  thor 
ough  respect  for  him,  and  she  felt  that 
the  time  might  come  when  she  could  enjoy 
him — as  a  reminiscence.  Mrs.  Dyer  was 
kindly,  and  not  more  of  a  gossip  than  her 
neighbors;  and  there  were  no  children, — 
only  one  grandchild,  the  inoffensive  Nicky. 
The  ways  of  the  house  were  somewhat  un 
couth,  but  everything  was  clean  and  in  a 
certain  sense  homelike.  To  Miss  Ne well's 
homesick  sensitiveness  it  seemed  better  than 
being  stared  at  across  the  boarding-house 
table  by  Boker  and  Pratt,  and  pitied  by  the 
engineer.  She  had  a  little  room  at  the 
Dyers',  which  was  a  reflection  of  herself  so 
far  as  a  year's  occupancy  and  very  moder 
ate  resources  could  make  it;  perhaps  for 
that  very  reason  she  often  found  her  little 
room  an  intolerable  prison.  One  night  her 
homesickness  had  taken  its  worst  form,  a 
restlessness,  which  began  in  a  nervous  in 
ward  throbbing  and  extended  to  her  cold 


24  IN  EXILE. 

and  tremulous  finger-tips.  She  went  softly 
downstairs  and  out  on  the  piazza,  where 
the  moonlight  lay  in  a  brilliant  square  on 
the  unpainted  boards.  The  moonlight  in 
creased  her  restlessness,  but  she  could  not 
keep  away  from  it.  She  dared  not  walk  up 
and  down  the  piazza,  because  the  people  in 
the  street  below  would  see  her;  she  stood 
there  perfectly  still,  holding  her  elbows 
with  her  hands,  crouched  into  a  little  dark 
heap  against  the  side  of  the  house. 

Lights  were  twinkling,  far  and  near,  over 
the  hills,  singly,  and  in  clusters.  Black 
figures  moved  across  the  moonlit  spaces  in 
the  street.  There  were  sounds  of  talking, 
laughing,  and  singing;  dogs  barking;  occa 
sionally  a  stir  and  tinkle  in  the  scrub,  as  a 
cow  wandered  past.  The  engines  throbbed 
from  the  distant  shaft-houses.  A  miner's 
wife  was  hushing  her  baby  in  the  next 
house,  and  across  the  street  a  group  of 
Mexicans  were  talking  all  at  once  in  a  loud, 
monotonous  cadence. 

In  her  early  days  at  the  mines  there  had 
been  a  certain  piquancy  in  her  sense  of  the 
contrast  between  herself  and  her  circum 
stances,  but  that  had  long  passed  into  a 
dreary  recognition  of  the  fact  that  she  had 
no  real  part  in  the  life  of  the  place. 


IN  EXILE.  25 

She  recalled  one  afternoon  when  Arnold 
had  passed  the  schoolhouse,  and  found  her 
sitting  alone  on  the  doorstep.  He  had 
stopped  to  ask  if  that  "  mongrel  pack  on  the 
hill  were  worrying  the  life  out  of  her,"  and 
had  added  with  a  laugh,  in  answer  to  her  look 
of  silent  disapproval,  "Oh,  I  mean  the  dear 
lambs  of  your  flock.  I  saw  two  of  them 
just  now  on  the  trail,  fighting  over  a  lame 
donkey.  The  clans  were  gathering  on  both 
sides;  there  will  be  a  pitched  battle  in  a 
few  minutes.  The  donkey  was  enjoying  it. 
I  think  he  was  asleep!  "  The  day  had  been 
an  unusually  hard  one,  and  the  patient  lit 
tle  schoolmistress  was  just  then  struggling 
with  a  distracted  sense  of  unavailing  effort. 
Arnold's  grim  banter  had  brought  the  tears, 
as  blood  follows  a  blow.  He  got  down  from 
his  horse,  looking  wretched  at  what  he  had 
done.  "  I  am  a  brute,  I  believe,  —  worse 
than  any  of  the  pack.  You  have  so  much 
patience  with  them,  —  please  have  a  little 
with  me.  Trust  me,  I  am  not  utterly  blind 
to  your  sufferings.  Indeed,  Miss  Newell, 
I  see  them,  and  they  make  me  savage!" 
With  the  gentlest  touch  he  had  lifted  her 
hand,  held  it  in  his  a  moment,  and  then  had 
mounted  his  horse  and  ridden  away. 


26  IN  EXILE. 

Yes,  lie  did  understand,  —  she  felt  sure 
of  that.  What  an  unutterable  rest  it  would 
be  if  she  could  go  to  some  one  with  the 
small  worries  of  her  life!  But  she  could 
not  yield  to  such  impulses.  It  was  differ 
ent  with  men.  She  had  often  thought  of 
Arnold's  words  that  day  at  the  spring,  all 
the  more  that  he  had  never,  before  or  since, 
revealed  so  much  of  himself  to  her.  Under 
an  apparently  careless  frankness  and  ex 
travagance  of  speech  he  was  a  reticent  man ; 
but  lightly  spoken  as  the  words  had  been, 
were  they  not  the  sparks  and  ashes  blown 
from  a  deep  and  smothered  core  of  fire? 
She  seemed  to  feel  its  glow  on  her  cheek  as 
she  recalled  his  singular  persistence  and  the 
darkening  of  his  imperious  eyes.  No,  she 
would  not  permit  herself  to  think  of  that 
day  at  the  spring. 

There  was  a  bright  light  in  the  engineer's 
office  across  the  street.  She  could  see  Ar 
nold  through  the  windows  (for,  like  a  man, 
he  did  not  pull  his  shades  down)  at  one 
of  the  long  drawing  -  tables.  He  worked 
late,  it  seemed.  He  was  writing;  he  wrote 
rapidly  page  after  page,  tearing  each  sheet 
from  what  appeared  to  be  a  paper  block, 
and  tossing  it  on  the  table  beside  him ;  he 


I 

IN  EXILE.  27 

covered  only  one  side  of  the  paper,  she  no 
ticed,  thinking  with  a  smile  of  her  own 
small  economies.  Presently  he  got  up, 
swept  the  papers  together  in  his  hands,  and 
stooped  over  them.  He  is  numbering  and 
folding  them,  she  thought,  and  now  he  is  di 
recting  the  envelope,  —  to  whom,  I  wonder ! 
He  turned,  and  as  he  walked  towards  the 
window  she  saw  him  put  something  into  the 
pocket  of  his  coat.  He  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
began  walking,  with  long  strides,  up  and 
down  the  room,  one  hand  in  his  pocket;  the 
other  he  occasionally  rubbed  over  his  eyes 
and  head,  as  if  they  hurt  him.  She  remem 
bered  that  the  engineer  had  headaches,  and 
wished  that  somebody  would  ask  him  to 
try  valerian.  Is  he  ever  really  lonely?  she 
thought.  What  can  he,  what  can  any  man, 
know  of  loneliness?  He  may  go  out  and 
walk  about  on  the  hills ;  he  may  go  away 
altogether,  and  take  the  risks  of  life  some 
where  else.  A  woman  must  take  no  risks. 
There  is  not  a  house  in  the  camp  where  he 
might  not  enter  to-night,  if  he  chose;  he 
might  come  over  here  and  talk  to  me.  The 
East,  with  all  its  cherished  memories  and 
prejudices  and  associations,  seemed  so  hope 
lessly  far  away;  they  two  alone,  in  that 


28  IN  EXILE. 

strange,  uncongenial  new  world  which  had 
crowded  out  the  old,  seemed  to  speak  a 
common  language:  and  yet  how  little  she 
really  knew  of  him ! 

Suddenly  the  lights  disappeared  from  the 
windows  of  the  office.  She  heard  a  door 
unlock,  and  presently  the  young  man's  fig 
ure  crossed  the  street  and  turned  up  the 
trail  past  the  house. 

Two  other  figures  going  up  halted,  and 
the  taller  one  said,  "Will  you  go  up  on  the 
hill,  to-night,  Arnold?" 

"What  for?"  said  Arnold,  slackening 
his  pace  without  stopping. 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular, — to  see  the 
senoritas." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Boker,  I  've  seen  the 
senoritas." 

He  walked  quickly  past  the  men,  and  the 
shorter  one,  who  had  not  spoken,  called 
after  him  rather  huskily,  — 

"  W-what  do  you  think  of  the  little  school- 
ma'am?" 

Arnold  turned  back  and  confronted  the 
speaker  in  silence. 

"I  say !  Is  she  thin  'nough  to  suit  you? " 
the  heavy -playful  one  persisted. 

"Shut  up,  Jack!"  said  his  comrade. 
"You  're  a  little  high  now,  you  know." 


7^  EXILE.  29 

He  dragged  him  on,  up  the  trail;  the 
voices  of  the  two  men  blended  with  the 
night  chorus  of  the  camp  as  they  passed  out 
of  sight. 

Miss  Newell  sat  perfectly  still  for  a 
while;  then  she  went  to  her  room,  and 
threw  herself  down  on  the  bed,  listening  to 
an  endless  mental  repetition  of  those  words 
that  the  faithless  night  had  brought  to  her 
ear.  The  moonlight  had  left  the  piazza, 
and  crept  round  to  the  side  of  the  house ;  it 
shone  in  at  the  window,  touching  the  girl's 
cold  fingers  pressed  to  her  burning  cheeks 
and  temples.  She  got  up,  drew  the  cur 
tain,  and  groped  her  way  back  to  the  bed, 
where  she  lay  for  hours,  trying  to  convince 
herself  that  her  misery  was  out  of  all  pro 
portion  to  the  cause,  and  that  those  coarse 
words  could  make  no  real  difference  in  her 
life. 

They  did  make  a  little  difference:  they 
loosened  the  slight,  indefinite  threads  of  in 
tercourse  which  a  year  had  woven  between 
these  two  exiles.  Miss  Newell  was  prepared 
to  withdraw  from  any  further  overtures  of 
friendship  from  the  engineer ;  but  he  made 
it  unnecessary  for  her  to  do  so,  —  he  made 
no  overtures.  On  the  night  of  Pratt 's  tipsy 


30  IN  EXILE. 

salutation  lie  had  abruptly  decided  that  a 
mining  camp  was  no  place  for  a  nice  girl, 
with  no  acknowledged  masculine  protector. 
In  Miss  Newell's  circumstances  a  girl  must 
be  left  entirely  alone,  or  exposed  to  the  gos 
sip  of  the  camp.  He  knew  very  well  which 
she  would  choose,  and  so  he  kept  away, 
—  though  at  considerable  loss  to  himself, 
he  felt.  It  made  him  cross  to  watch  her 
pretty  figure  going  up  the  trail  every  morn 
ing  and  to  reflect  that  so  much  sweetness 
and  refinement  should  not  be  having  its 
ameliorating  influence  on  his  own  barren 
and  somewhat  defiant  existence. 


n. 

The  autumn  rains  set  in  early,  and  the 
winter  was  unusually  severe.  Arnold  had 
a  purpose  which  kept  him  hard  at  work  and 
very  happy  in  those  days. 

During  the  long  December  nights  he  was 
shut  up  in  his  office,  plodding  over  his  maps 
and  papers,  or  smoking  in  dreamy  comfort 
by  the  fire.  He  was  seldom  interrupted, 
for  he  had  earned  the  character  of  a  social 
ingrate  and  hardened  recluse  in  the  camp. 
He  had  earned  it  quite  unconsciously,  and 


IN  EXILE.  31 

was  as  little  troubled  by  the  fact  as  by 
its  consequences.  On  the  evening  of  New 
Year's  Day  he  crossed  the  street  to  the 
Dyers'  and  asked  for  Miss  Newell.  She 
presently  greeted  him  in  the  parlor,  where 
she  looked,  Arnold  thought,  more  than  ever 
out  of  place,  among  the  bead  baskets,  and 
splint  frames  inclosing  photographs  of  de 
ceased  members  of  the  Dyer  family,  and  the 
pallid  walls,  weak-legged  chairs,  and  crude 
imaginings  in  worsted  work.  Her  apparent 
unconsciousness  of  these  abominations  was 
another  source  of  irritation.  It  is  always 
irritating  to  a  man  to  see  a  charming  woman 
in  an  unhappy  and  false  position,  where  he 
is  powerless  to  help  her.  Arnold  had  not  ex 
pected  that  it  would  be  a  very  exhilarating 
occasion,  —  he  remembered  the  Dyer  par 
lor,  —  but  it  was  even  less  pleasant  than  he 
had  expected.  He  sat  down,  carefully,  in 
a  glued  chair  whose  joints  had  opened  with 
the  dry  season  and  refused  to  close  again; 
he  did  not  know  where  the  transfer  of  his 
person  might  end.  Captain  Dyer  was  pres 
ent,  and  told  a  great  many  stories  in  a  loud, 
tiring  voice.  Miss  Frances  sat  by  with 
some  soft  white  knitting  in  her  hands,  and 
her  attitude  of  patient  attention  made  Ar- 


32  IN  EXILE. 

nold  long  to  attack  her  with  some  savage 
pleasantries  on  the  subject  of  Christmas  in 
a  mining  camp ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  pa 
tience  was  a  virtue  that  could  be  carried 
too  far,  even  in  woman.  Then  Mrs.  Dyer 
came  in,  and  manoeuvred  her  husband  out 
into  the  passage;  after  some  loudly  sug 
gestive  whispering  there,  she  succeeded  in 
getting  him  into  the  kitchen,  and  shut  the 
door.  Arnold  got  up  soon  after  that,  and 
said  good-evening. 

Miss  Newell  remained  in  the  parlor  for 
some  time,  after  he  had  gone,  moving  softly 
about.  She  had  gathered  her  knitting 
closely  into  her  clasped  hands;  the  ball 
trailed  after  Ler,  among  the  legs  of  the 
chairs,  and  when  in  her  silent  promenade 
she  had  spun  a  grievous  tangle  of  wool  she 
sat  down,  and  dropped  the  work  out  of  her 
hands  with  a  helpless  gesture.  Her  head 
drooped,  and  tears  trickled  slowly  between 
the  slender  white  fingers  which  covered  her 
face.  Presently  the  fingers  descended  to 
her  throat  and  clasped  it  close,  as  if  to  still 
an  intolerable  throbbing  ache  which  her 
half -suppressed  tears  had  left. 

At  length  she  rose,  picked  up  her  work, 
and  patiently  followed  the  tangled  clue 


IN  EXILE.  33 

until  she  had  recovered  her  ball ;  then  she 
wound  it  all  up  neatly,  wrapped  the  knit 
ting  in  a  thin  white  handkerchief,  and  went 
to  her  room. 

With  the  fine  March  weather  —  fine  in 
spite  of  the  light  rains  —  the  engineer  was 
laying  out  a  road  to  the  new  shaft ;  it  wound 
along  the  hillside  where  Miss  Newell  had 
first  seen  the  green  trees,  by  the  spring. 
The  engineer's  orders  included  the  building 
of  a  flume,  carrying  the  water  down  from 
the  Chilano's  plantation  into  a  tank,  built 
on  the  ruins  of  the  rock  which  had  guarded 
the  sylvan  spring.  The  discordant  voices 
of  a  gang  of  Chinamen  profaned  the  still 
ness  which  had  framed  Miss  Frances'  girl 
ish  laughter;  the  blasting  of  the  rock  had 
loosened,  to  their  fall,  the  clustering  trees 
above,  and  the  brook  below  was  a  mass  of 
trampled  mud. 

The  engineer's  visits  to  the  spring  gave 
him  no  pleasure,  in  those  days.  He  felt 
that  he  was  the  inevitable  instrument  of  its 
desecration ;  but  over  the  hill,  just  in  sight 
from  the  spring,  carpenters  were  putting  a 
new  piazza  round  a  cottage  that  stood  re 
mote  from  the  camp,  where  a  spur  of  the 
hills  descended  steeply  towards  the  valley. 


34  IN  EXILE. 

Arnold  took  a  great  interest  i»  this  cottage. 
He  was  frequently  to  be  seen  there  in  the 
evening,  tramping  up  and  down  the  new 
piazza,  and  offering  to  the  moon,  that 
looked  in  through  the  boughs  of  a  live-oak 
at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  the  incense  of  his 
lonely  cigar.  Sometimes  he  would  take  the 
key  of  the  front  door  from  his  pocket,  enter 
the  silent  house,  and  wander  from  one  room 
to  another,  like  a  restless  but  not  unhappy 
ghost;  the  moonlight,  touching  his  face, 
showed  it  strangely  stirred  and  softened. 
His  was  no  melancholy  madness. 

Arnold  was  leaning  on  the  gate  of  this 
cottage,  one  afternoon,  when  the  schoolmis 
tress  came  down  the  trail  from  the  camp. 
She  did  not  appear  to  see  him,  but  turned 
off  from  the  trail  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  cottage,  and  took  her  way  across  the  hill 
behind  it.  Arnold  watched  her  a  few  min 
utes,  and  then  followed,  overtaking  her  on 
the  hills  above  the  new  road,  where  she  had 
sat  with  Nicky  Dyer  nearly  a  year  ago. 

"I  don't  like  to  see  you  wandering  about 
here,  alone,"  he  said.  "The  men  on  the 
road  are  a  scratch  gang,  picked  up  anyhow, 
not  like  the  regular  miners.  I  hope  you 
are  not  going  to  the  spring!  " 


IN  EXILE.  35 

"Why?"  said  she.  "Did  you  not  drink 
to  our  return?" 

"But  you  would  not  drink  with  me,  so 
the  spell  did  not  work ;  and  now  the  spring 
is  gone,  —  all  its  beauty,  I  mean.  The 
water  is  there,  in  a  tank,  where  the  China 
men  fill  their  buckets  night  and  morning, 
and  the  teamsters  water  their  horses.  We  '11 
go  over  there,  if  you  would  like  to  see  the 
march  of  modern  improvements." 

"No,"  she  said;  "I  had  rather  remember 
it  as  it  was;  still,  I  don't  believe  in  being 
sentimental  about  such  things.  Let  us  sit 
down  a  while." 

A  vague  depression,  which  Arnold  had 
been  aware  of  in  her  manner  when  they 
met,  became  suddenly  manifest  in  her  pale 
ness  and  in  a  look  of  dull  pain  in  her 
eyes. 

"But  you  are  hurt  about  it,"  he  said.  "I 
wish  I  had  n't  told  you  in  that  brutal  way. 
I  'm  afraid  I  'm  not  many  degrees  removed 
from  the  primeval  savage,  after  all." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  mind,"  she  said,  after 
a  moment.  "That  was  the  only  place  I 
cared  for,  here,  so  now  there  will  be  nothing 
to  regret  when  I  go  away." 

"Are  you  going  away,  then?     I'm  very 


36  IN  EXILE. 

sorry  to  hear  it ;  but  of  course  I  'm  not  sur 
prised.  You  couldn't  be  expected  to  stand 
it  another  year;  those  children  must  have 
been  something  fearful." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  the  children." 
"  Well,  I  'm  sorry.     I  had  hoped  "  — 
"Yes,"  said  she,  with  a  modest  interro 
gation,  as  he  hesitated,  "what  is  it  you  had 
hoped?" 

"That  I  might  indirectly  be  the  means  of 
making  your  life  less  lonely  here.  You  re 
member  that  'experiment '  we  talked  about 
at  the  spring?  " 

"That  you  talked  about,  you  mean." 
"  I  am  going  to  try  it  myself.  Not  be 
cause  you  were  so  encouraging,  —  but  —  it 's 
a  risk  anyway,  you  know,  and  I  'm  not 
sure  the  circumstances  make  so  much  differ 
ence.  I  've  known  people  to  be  wretched 
with  all  the  modern  conveniences.  I  am 
going  East  for  her  in  about  two  weeks. 
How  sorry  she  will  be  to  find  you  gone !  I 
wrote  to  her  about  you.  You  might  have 
helped  each  other;  couldn't  you  stand  it, 
Miss  Newell,  don't  you  think,  if  you  had 
another  girl?  " 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  she  said  very  gently. 
"I  must  go  home.     You  may  be  sure  she 


IN  EXILE.  37 

will  not  need  me;  you  must  see  to  it  that 
she  doesn't  need  —  any  one." 

They  were  walking  back  and  forth  on  the 
hill. 

"I  was  just  looking  for  the  cottonwood- 
trees;  are  they  gone  too?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  yes;  there  isn't  a  tree  left  in  the 
canon.  Don't  you  envy  me  my  work?  " 

"I  suppose  everything  we  do  seems  like 
desecration  to  somebody.  Here  am  I  mak 
ing  history  very  rapidly  for  this  colony  of 
ants."  She  looked  down  with  a  rueful 
smile  as  she  spoke. 

"I  wish  you  had  the  history  of  the  entire 
species  under  your  foot,  and  could  finish  it 
at  once." 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  would  ;  I  'm  not  so 
fond  of  extermination  as  you  pretend  to  be." 

"Well,  keep  the  ants  if  you  like  them, 
but  I  am  firm  on  the  subject  of  the  camp 
children.  There  are  blessings  that  brighten 
as  they  take  their  flight.  I  pay  my  monthly 
assessment  for  the  doctor  with  the  greatest 
cheerfulness ;  if  it  was  n't  for  him,  in  this 
climate,  they  would  crowd  us  off  the  hill." 

"Please  don't!"  she  said  wearily. 
"Even  /  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  like 
that;  I  am  sure  she  will  not." 


38  IN  EXILE, 

He  laughed  softly.  "You  have  often  re 
minded  me  of  her  in  little  ways :  that  was 
what  upset  me  at  the  spring.  I  was  very 
near  telling  you  all  about  her  that  day." 

"I  wish  that  you  had!  "  she  said.  They 
were  walking  towards  home  now.  "I  sup 
pose  you  know  it  is  talked  of  in  the  camp," 
she  said,  after  a  pause.  "Mr.  Dyer  told 
me,  and  showed  me  the  house,  a  week  ago. 
And  now  I  must  tell  you  about  my  violets. 
I  had  them  in  a  box  in  my  room  all  winter. 
I  should  like  to  leave  them  as  a  little  wel 
come  to  her.  Last  night  Nicky  Dyer  and 
I  planted  them  on  the  bank  by  the  piazza 
under  the  climbing-rose ;  it  was  a  secret  be 
tween  Nicky  and  me,  and  Nicky  promised 
to  water  them  until  she  came ;  but  of  course 
I  meant  to  tell  you.  Will  you  look  at  them 
to-night,  please,  and  see  if  Nicky  has  been 
faithful?" 

"I  will,  indeed,"  said  Arnold.  "That 
is  just  the  kind  of  thing  she  will  delight  in. 
If  you  are  going  East,  Miss  Newell,  shall 
we  not  be  fellow-travelers?  I  should  be  so 
glad  to  be  of  any  service." 

"No,  thank  you.  I  am  to  spend  a  month 
in  Santa  Barbara,  and  escort  an  invalid 
friend  home.  I  shall  have  to  say  good-by, 


IN  EXILE.  39 

now.      Don't    go    any    farther    with    me, 
please." 

That  night  Arnold  mused  late,  leaning 
over  the  railing  of  the  new  piazza  in  the 
moonlight.  He  fancied  that  a  faint  per 
fume  of  violets  came  from  the  damp  earth 
below ;  but  it  could  have  been  only  fancy, 
for  when  he  searched  the  bank  for  them 
they  were  not  there.  The  new  sod  was 
trampled,  and  a  few  leaves  and  slight,  up- 
torn  roots  lay  scattered  about,  with  some 
broken  twigs  from  the  climbing -rose.  He 
had  found  the  gate  open  when  he  came,  and 
the  Dyer  cow  had  passed  him,  meandering 
peacefully  up  the  trail. 

The  crescent  moon  had  waxed  and  waned 
since  the  night  when  it  lighted  the  engi 
neer's  musings  through  the  wind-parted 
live-oak  boughs,  and  another  slender  bow 
gleamed  in  the  pale,  tinted  haze  of  twilight. 
The  month  had  gone,  like  a  feverish  dream, 
to  the  young  schoolmistress,  as  she  lay  in 
her  small,  upper  chamber,  unconscious  of 
all  save  alternate  light  and  darkness,  and 
rest  following  pain.  When,  at  last,  she 
crept  down  the  short  staircase  to  breathe 
the  evening  coolness,  clinging  to  the  stair- 


40  IN  EXILE. 

rail  and  holding  her  soft  white  draperies 
close  around  her,  she  saw  the  pink  light 
lingering  on  the  mountains,  and  heard  the 
chorus  to  the  "Sweet  By  and  By"  from 
the  miners'  chapel  on  the  hill.  It  was  Sun 
day  evening,  and  the  house  was  piously 
"emptied  of  its  folk."  She  took  her  old 
seat  by  the  parlor  window,  and  looked 
across  to  the  engineer's  office;  its  win 
dows  and  doors  were  shut,  and  the  dogs 
of  the  camp  were  chasing  each  other  over 
the  loose  boards  of  the  piazza  floor.  She 
laughed  a  weak,  convulsive  laugh,  thinking 
of  the  engineer's  sallies  of  old  upon  that 
band  of  Ishmaelites,  and  of  the  scrambling, 
yelping  rush  that  followed.  He  must  have 
gone  East,  else  the  dogs  had  not  been  so 
bold.  She  looked  down  the  valley  where 
the  mountains  parted  seaward,  the  only 
break  in  the  continuous  barrier  of  land  that 
cut  off  her  retreat  and  closed  in  about  the 
atom  of  her  own  identity.  The  thought 
of  that  immensity  of  distance  made  her 
faint. 

There  were  steps  on  the  porch,  —  not 
Captain  Dyer's,  for  he  and  his  good  wife 
were  lending  their  voices  to  swell  the  sten 
torian  chorus  that  was  shaking  the  church 


IN  EXILE.  41 

on  the  hill ;  the  footsteps  paused  at  the  door, 
and  Arnold  himself  opened  it.  He  had  not, 
evidently,  expected  to  see  her. 

"I  was  looking  for  some  one  to  ask  about 
you,"  he  said.  "Are  you  sure  you  are  able 
to  be  down?" 

"Oh  yes.  I  've  been  sitting  up  for  sev 
eral  days.  I  wanted  to  see  the  mountains 
again." 

He  was  looking  at  her  intently,  while  she 
flushed  with  weakness,  and  drew  the  fringes 
of  her  shawl  over  her  tremulous  hands. 

"  How  ill  you  have  been !  I  have  wished 
myself  a  woman,  that  I  might  do  something 
for  you!  I  suppose  Mrs.  Dyer  nursed  you 
like  a  horse." 

"Oh  no;  she  was  very  good;  but  I  don't 
remember  much  about  the  worst  of  it.  I 
thought  you  had  gone  home." 

"  Home !  Where  do  you  mean ?  I  did  n't 
know  that  I  had  ever  boasted  of  any  reserved 
rights  of 'that  kind.  I  have  no  mortgage, 
in  fact  or  sentiment,  on  any  part  of  the 
earth's  surface,  that  I  'm  acquainted  with! " 

He  spoke  with  a  hard  carelessness  in  his 
manner  which  make  her  shrink. 

"I  mean  the  East.  I  am  homeless,  too, 
but  all  the  East  seems  like  home  to  me." 


42  IN  EXILE. 

"You  had  better  get  rid  of  those  senti 
mental,  backward  fancies  as  soon  as  possi 
ble.  The  East  concerns  itself  very  little 
about  us,  I  can  tell  you!  It  can  spare  us." 

She  thrilled  with  pain  at  his  words.  "I 
should  think  you  would  be  the  last  one  to 
say  so,  —  you,  who  have  so  much  treasure 
there." 

"Will  you  please  to  understand,"  he 
said,  turning  upon  her  a  face  of  bitter  calm 
ness,  "that  I  claim  no  treasure  anywhere, 
—  not  even  in  heaven!  " 

She  sat  perfectly  still,  conscious  that  by 
some  fatality  of  helpless  incomprehension 
every  word  that  she  said  goaded  him,  and 
she  feared  to  speak  again. 

"Now  I  have  hurt  you,"  he  said  in  his 
gentlest  voice.  "I  am  always  hurting  you. 
I  ought  n't  to  come  near  you  with  my  rough 
edges !  I  '11  go  away  now,  if  you  will  tell 
me  that  you  forgive  me !  " 

She  smiled  at  him  without  speaking, 
while  her  fair  throat  trembled  with  a  pulse 
of  pain. 

"Will  you  let  me  take  your  hand  a 
moment  ?  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  touched 
a  woman's  hand!  God!  how  lonely  I  am! 
Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way;  don't  pity 


/#  EXILE.  43 

me,  or  I  shall  lose  what  little  manhood  I 
have  left!" 

"What  is  it?"  she  said,  leaning  towards 
him.  "There  is  something  strange  in  your 
face.  If  you  are  in  trouble,  tell  me ;  it  will 
help  me  to  hear  it.  I  am  not  so  very  happy 
myself." 

"Why  should  I  add  my  load  to  yours? 
I  seem  always  to  impose  myself  upon  you, 
first  my  hopes,  and  now  my  —  no,  it  is  n't 
despair ;  it  is  only  a  kind  of  brutal  numb 
ness.  You  must  have  the  fatal  gift  of  sym 
pathy,  or  you  would  never  have  seen  my 
little  hurt." 

Miss  Frances  was  not  strong  enough  to 
bear  the  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  turned  them 
upon  her,  with  a  dreary  smile.  She  covered 
her  face  with  one  hand,  while  she  whis 
pered,  - 

"Is  it  —  you  have  not  lost  her?" 

"Yes!  Or,  rather,  I  never  had  her. 
I  've  been  dreaming  like  a  boy  all  these 
years,  — '  In  sleep  a  king,  but  waking,  no 
such  matter. ' ' 

"It  is  not  death,  then?" 

"No,  she  is  not  dead.  She  is  not  even 
false;  that  is,  not  very  false.  How  can  I 
tell  you  how  little  it  is,  and  yet  how  much ! 


44  IN  EXILE. 

She  is  only  a  trifle  selfish.  Why  should  n't 
she  be?  Why  should  we  men  claim  the 
exclusive  right  to  choose  the  best  for  our 
selves?  It  was  selfish  of  me  to  ask  her 
to  share  such  a  life  as  mine;  and  she  has 
;  gently  and  reasonably  reminded  me  that 
I  'm  not  worth  the  sacrifice.  It 's  quite 
true.  I  always  knew  I  wasn't.  She  put 
it  very  delicately  and  sweetly;  —  she's  the 
sweetest  girl  you  ever  saw.  She  'd  marry 
me  to-morrow  if  I  could  add  myself,  such 
as  I  am, — she  doesn't  overrate  me, — to 
what  she  has  already;  but  an  exchange  she 
was  n't  prepared  for.  In  all  my  life  I  never 
was  so  clearly  estimated,  body  and  soul.  I 
don't  blame  her,  you  understand.  When 
I  left  her,  three  years  ago,  I  saw  my  way 
easily  enough  to  a  reputation,  and  an  in- 
i/  !j  come,  and  a  home  in  the  East;  she  never 
thought  of  anything  else;  I  never  taught 
her  to  look  for  anything  else.  I  dare  say 
she  rather  enjoyed  having  a  lover  working 
for  her  in  the  unknown  West;  she  enjoyed 
the  pretty  letters  she  wrote  me;  but  when 
it  came  to  the  bare  bones  of  existence  in  a 
mining  camp,  with  a  husband  not  very  rich 
or  very  distinguished,  she  had  nothing  to 
clothe  them  with.  You  said  once  that  to  be 


IN  EXILE.  45 

happy  here  a  woman  must  not  have  too 
much  imagination ;  she  had  n't  quite  enough. 
I  had  to  be  dead  honest  with  her  when  I 
asked  her  to  come.  I  told  her  there  was 
nothing  here  but  the  mountains  and  the 
sunsets,  and  a  few  items  of  picturesqueness 
which  count  with  some  people.  Of  course 
I  had  to  tell  her  I  was  but  little  better  off 
than  when  I  left.  A  man's  experience  is 
something  he  cannot  set  forth  at  its  value 
to  himself;  she  passed  it  over  as  a  word  of 
no  practical  meaning.  There  her  imagina 
tion  failed  her  again.  She  took  me  frankly 
at  my  own  estimate ;  and  in  justice  to  her  I 
must  say  I  put  myself  at  the  lowest  figures. 
I  made  a  very  poor  show  on  paper." 

"You  wrote  to  her!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Frances.  "You  did  not  go  on?  Oh,  you 
have  made  a  great  mistake !  Do  go :  it  can 
not  be  too  late.  Letters  are  the  most  un- 
trusty  things! " 

"Wait,"  he  said.  "There  is  something 
else.  She  has  a  head  for  business;  she  pro 
posed  that  I  should  come  East,  and  accept 
a  superintendentship  from  a  cousin  of  hers, 
the  owner  of  a  gun-factory  in  one  of  those 
shady  New  England  towns  women  are  so 
fond  of.  She  intimated  that  he  was  in  poli- 


46  IN  EXILE. 

tics,  this  cousin,  and  of  course  would  expect 
his  employees  to  become  part  of  his  con 
stituency,,  It 's  a  very  pretty  little  bribe, 
you  see;  when  you  add  the  —  the  girl,  it's 
enough  to  shake  a  man  —  who  wants  that 
girl.  I  'm  not  worth  much  to  myself,  or  to 
anybody  else,  apparently,  but  by  Heaven 
I  '11  not  sell  out  as  cheap  as  that! 

"It  all  amounts  to  nothing  except  one 
more  illusion  gone.  If  there  is  a  woman 
on  this  earth  that  can  love  a  man  without 
knowing  for  what,  and  take  the  chances  of 
life  with  him  without  counting  the  cost,  I 
have  never  known  her.  I  asked  you  once 
if  a  woman  could  do  that.  You  had  n't  the 
courage  to  tell  me  the  truth.  I  wouldn't 
have  been  satisfied  if  you  had ;  but  I  'm 
satisfied  now." 

"I  believed  she  would  be  happy;  I  be 
lieve  she  would  be,  now,  if  only  you  would 
go  to  her  and  persuade  her  to  try." 

"  I  persuade  her !  I  would  never  try  to 
persuade  a  woman  to  be  my  wife  were  I 
dying  for  love  of  her !  I  don't  think  my 
self  invented  by  nature  to  promote  the  hap 
piness  of  woman,  in  the  aggregate  or  singly. 
I  know  there  are  men  who  do:  let  them 
urge  their  claims.  I  thought  that  she  loved 


IN  EXILE.  479 

me;  that  was  another  illusion.  She  will 
probably  marry  the  cousin,  and  become  the 
most  loyal  of  his  constituents.  He  is  wel 
come  to  her;  but  there  's  a  ghostly  blank 
somewhere.  How  I  have  tired  you !  You  '11 
be  in  bed  another  week  for  this  selfishness 
of  mine."  He  stopped,  while  a  sudden 
thought  brought  a  change  to  his  face. 
"But  when  are  you  going  home?  " 

"I  cannot  go,"  she  said.  Her  weak 
ness  came  over  her  like  a  cloud,  darkening 
the  room  and  pressing  upon  her  heavily. 
"Will  you  give  me  your  arm?" 

At  the  stairs  she  stopped,  and  leaning 
against  the  wall  looked  at  him  with  wide, 
hopeless  eyes. 

"We  are  cut  off  from  everything.  My 
friend  does  not  need  me  now;  she  has  gone 
home,  — alone.  She  is  dead!  " 

Arnold  took  a  long  walk  upon  the  hills 
that  night,  and  smoked  a  great  many  cigars 
in  gloomy  meditation.  He  was  thinking  of 
two  girls,  as  young  men  who  smoke  a  great 
many  cigars  without  counting  them  often 
are ;  he  was  also  thinking  of  Arizona.  He 
had  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  resign,  and 
depart  for  that  problematic  region  as  soon 
as  his  place  was  filled;  but  an  alternative 


48  IN  EXILE. 

had  presented  itself  to  him  with  a  pensive 
attractiveness,  —  an  alternative  unmistaka 
bly  associated  with  the  fact  that  the  school 
mistress  was  to  remain  in  her  present  iso 
lated  circumstances.  It  even  had  occurred 
to  him  that  there  might  be  some  question  of 
duty  involved  in  his  "standing  by  her,"  as 
he  phrased  it  to  himself,  "till  she  got  her 
color  back."  There  was  an  unconscious 
appeal  in  the  last  words  he  had  heard  her 
speak  which  constrained  him  to  do  so.  He 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  pitying  himself,  but 
had  there  been  another  soul  to  follow  this 
mental  readjustment  of  himself  to  his  mu 
tilated  life,  it  would  surely  have  pitied  the 
eagerness  with  which  he  clung  to  this  one 
shadow  of  a  duty  to  a  fellow-creature.  It 
was  the  measure  of  his  loneliness. 

It  was  late  in  November.  The  rains  had 
begun  again  with  sound  and  fury;  with 
ranks  of  clouds  forming  along  the  mountain 
sides,  and  driven  before  the  sea-winds  up 
ward  through  the  gulches;  with  days  of 
breeze  and  sunshine,  when  the  fog  veil  was 
lightly  lifted  and  blown  apart,  showing  the 
valley  always  greener;  with  days  of  lower 
ing  stillness,  when  the  veil  descended  and 
left  the  mountains  alone,  like  islands  of 


IN  EXILE.  49 

shadow  rising  from  a  sea  of  misty  white 
ness. 

On  such  a  lowering  day,  Miss  Frances 
stood  at  the  junction  of  three  trails,  in 
front  of  the  door  of  the  blacksmith's  shop. 
She  was  wrapped  in  a  dark  blue  cloak,  with 
the  hood  drawn  over  her  head;  the  cool 
dampness  had  given  to  her  cheeks  a  clear, 
pure  glow,  and  her  brown  eyes  looked  out 
with  a  cheerful  light.  She  was  watching 
the  parting  of  the  mist  in  the  valley  below ; 
for  a  wind  had  sprung  up,  and  now  the  rift 
widened,  as  the  windows  of  heaven  might 
have  opened,  giving  a  glimpse  of  the  world 
to  the  "Blessed  Damozel."  All  was  dark 
above  and  around  her;  only  a  single  shaft 
of  sunlight  pierced  the  fog,  and  startled 
into  life  a  hundred  tints  of  brightness  in 
the  valley.  She  caught  the  sparkle  on  the 
roofs  and  windows  of  the  town  ten  miles 
away ;  the  fields  of  sunburnt  stubble  glowed 
a  deep  Indian  red;  the  young  crops  were 
tenderest  emerald ;  and  the  line  of  the  dis 
tant  bay,  a  steel-blue  thread  against  the 
horizon. 

Arnold  was  plodding  up  the  lower  trail 
on  his  gray  mare,  fetlock  deep  in  mud. 
He  dismounted  at  the  door  of  the  shop,  and 


50  IN  EXILE. 

called  to  him  a  small  Mexican  lad  with  a 
cheek  of  the  tint  of  ripe  corn. 

"Here,  Pedro  Segundo!  Take  this  mare 
up  to  the  camp!  Can  you  catch?"  He 
tossed  him  a  coin.  "Bueno!  " 

"Mucho  bueno!"  said  Pedro  the  First, 
looking  on  approvingly  from  the  door  of  his 
shop. 

Arnold  turned  to  the  schoolmistress,  who 
was  smiling  from  her  perch  on  a  pile  of  wet 
logs. 

"  I  'm  perfectly  happy !  "  she  said.  "  This 
east  wind  takes  me  home.  I  hear  the  blue 
birds,  and  smell  the  salt-marshes  and  the 
wood-mosses.  I  'm  not  sure  but  that  when 
the  fog  lifts  we  shall  see  white  caps  in  the 
valley." 

"I  dare  say  there  are  some  very  good 
people  down  there,"  said  Arnold,  with  de 
liberation,  "but  all  the  same  I  should  wel 
come  an  inundation.  Think  what  a  cli 
mate  this  would  be,  if  we  could  have  the 
sea  below  us,  knocking  against ,  the  rocks 
on  still  nights,  and  thundering  at  us  in  a 
storm!" 

"Don't  speak  of  it!  It  makes  me  long 
for  a  miracle,  or  a  judgment,  or  something 
that 's  not  likely  to  happen." 


IN  EXILE.  51 

"Meantime,  I  want  you  to  come  down 
the  trail,  and  pass  judgment  on  my  bache 
lor  quarters.  I  can't  stand  the  boarding- 
house  any  longer !  By  Jove,  I  'm  like  the 
British  footman  in  'Punch,'  —  'what  with 
them  legs  o'  mutton  and  legs  o'  pork,  I  'm 
a'most  wore  out!  I  want  a  new  hanimal 
inwented ! '  I  've  found  an  old  girl  down  in 
the  valley  who  consents  to  look  after  me 
and  vary  the  monotony  of  my  dinners  at  the 
highest  market  price.  She  is  n't  here  yet, 
but  the  cabin  is  about  ready.  I  want  you 
to  come  down  and  look  it  over.  I  'm  a  per 
fect  barbarian  about  color!  You  can't  put 
it  on  too  thick  and  strong  to  suit  me.  I 
dare  say  I  need  toning  down." 

They  were  slipping  and  sliding  down  the 
muddy  trail,  brushing  the  raindrops  from 
the  live-oak  scrub  as  they  passed.  A  sub 
tle  underlying  content  had  lulled  them 
both,  of  late,  into  an  easier  companionship 
than  they  had  ever  found  possible  before, 
and  they  were  gay  with  that  enjoyment  of 
wet  weather  which  is  like  an  intoxication 
after  seven  months  of  drought. 

"Now  I  suppose  you  like  soft,  harmoni 
ous  tints  and  neutral  effects.  You  're  a 
bit  of  a  conservative  in  everything,  I  fear." 


52  IN  EXILE. 

"I  think  I  should  like  plenty  of  color 
here,  or  else  positive  white;  the  monotony 
of  the  landscape  and  its  own  deep,  low 
tones  demand  it.  A  neutral  house  would 
fade  into  an  ash  heap  under  this  sun." 

"Good !  Then  you  '11  like  my  dark  little 
den,  with  its  barbaric  reds  and  blues." 

They  were  at  the  gate  of  the  little  cot 
tage,  overlooking  the  valley.  The  gleam 
of  sunlight  had  faded  and  the  fog  curtain 
rolled  back.  The  house  did  indeed  seem 
very  dark  as  they  entered.  It  was  only 
a  little  after  four  o'clock,  but  the  cloudy 
twilight  of  a  short  November  day  was  sud 
denly  descending  upon  them.  The  school 
mistress  looked  shyly  around,  while  Arnold 
tramped  about  the  rooms  and  sprung  the 
shades  up  as  high  as  they  would  go. 

They  were  in  a  small,  irregular  parlor, 
wainscoted  and  floored  in  redwood,  and 
lightly  furnished  with  bamboo.  This  room 
communicated  by  a  low  arch  with  the  din 
ing-room  beyond. 

"I  have  some  flags  and  spurs  and  old 
trophies  to  hang  up  there,"  he  said,  point 
ing  to  the  arch;  "and  perhaps  I  can  get 
you  to  sew  the  rings  on  the  curtain  that 's 
to  hang  underneath.  I  don't  want  too 


IN  EXILE.  53 

much  of  the  society  of  my  angel  from  the 
valley,  you  know ;  besides,  I  want  to  shield 
her  from  the  vulgar  gaze,  as  they  do  the 
picture  of  the  Madonna." 

"It  will  serve  you  right  if  she  never 
comes  at  all! " 

"Oh,  she  's  pining  to  come.  She  's  dy 
ing  to  sacrifice  herself  for  twenty -five  dol 
lars  a  month.  Did  I  tell  you,  by  the  way, 
that  I  've  had  a  rise  in  my  salary  ?  There 
is  a  rise  in  the  work,  too,  which  rather 
overbalances  the  increase  of  pay,  but  that 's 
understood ;  for  a  good  many  years  it  will 
be  more  work  than  wage,  but  at  the  other 
end  I  hope  it  will  be  more  wage  than  work. 
You  don't  seem  to  be  very  much  interested 
in  my  affairs;  if  you  knew  how  seldom  I 
speak  of  them  to  any  one  but  yourself,  you 
might  perhaps  deign  to  listen." 

"I  am  listening;  but  I  'm  thinking,  too, 
that  it 's  getting  very  late." 

"See,  here  is  my  curtain!  "  he  said,  drag 
ging  out  a  breadth  of  heavy  stuff.  He  took 
it  to  the  window,  and  threw  it  over  a  Chi 
nese  lounge  that  stood  beneath.  "It's  an 

O 

old  serape  I  picked  up  at  Guadalajara  five 
years  ago :  the  beauty  of  having  a  house  is 
that  all  the  old  rubbish  you  have  bored 


54  IN  EXILE. 

yourself  with  for  years  immediately  becomes 
respectable  and  useful.  I  expect  to  become 
so  myself.  You  don't  say  that  you  like  my 
curtain ! " 

"I  think  it  is  very  pagan  looking,  and 
rather  —  dirty." 

"  Well,  I  shan't  make  a  point  of  the  dirt. 
I  dare  say  the  thing  would  look  just  as 
well  if  it  was  clean.  Won't  you  try  my 
lounge?"  he  said,  as  she  looked  restlessly 
towards  the  door.  "  It  was  invented  by  a 
race  that  can  loaf  more  naturally  than  we 
do:  it  takes  an  American  back  some  time 
to  relax  enough  to  appreciate  it." 

Miss  Frances  half  reluctantly  drew  her 
cloak  about  her,  and  yielded  her  Northern 
slenderness  to  the  long  Oriental  undulations 
of  the  couch.  Her  head  was  thrown  back, 
showing  her  fair  throat  and  the  sweet  up 
ward  curves  of  her  lips  and  brows. 

Arnold  gazed  at  her  with  too  evident  de 
light. 

"Why  won't  you  sit  still?  You  cannot 
deny  that  you  have  never  been  so  comfort 
able  in  your  life  before." 

"It 's  a  very  good  place  to  'loaf  and 
invite  one's  soul,'"  she  said,  rising  to  a 
sitting  position;  "but  that  isn't  my  occu- 


IN  EXILE.  55 

pation  at  present.     I  must  go  home.     It  is 
almost  dark." 

"There  is  no  hurry.  I'm  going  with 
you.  I  want  you  to  see  how  the  little 
room  lights  up.  I  've  never  seen  it  by 
firelight,  and  I  '11  have  my  house-warming 
to-night!" 

uOh  no,  indeed!  I  must  go  back. 
There  's  the  five  o'clock  whistle,  now!  " 

"Well,  we've  an  hour  yet.  You  must 
get  warm  before  you  go." 

He  went  out,  and  quickly  returned  with 
an  armful  of  wood  and  shavings,  which  he 
crammed  into  the  cold  fireplace. 

"What  a  litter  you  have  made!  Do  you 
think  your  mature  angel  from  the  valley 
will  stand  that  sort  of  thing?" 

As  she  spoke,  the  rain  descended  in  vio 
lence,  sweeping  across  the  piazza,  and  oblit 
erating  the  fast-fading  landscape.  They 
could  scarcely  see  each  other  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  the  trampling  on  the  roof  over 
head  made  speech  a  useless  effort.  Almost 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  opened  upon  them 
the  tumult  ceased,  and  in  the  silence  that 
followed  they  listened  to  the  heavy  rain 
drops  spattering  from  the  eaves. 

Arnold    crossed   to    the   window,    where 


56  IN  EXILE. 

Miss  Frances    stood    shivering   and  silent, 
with  her  hands  clasped  before  her. 

"I  want  you  to  light  my  fire,"  he  said, 
with  a  certain  concentration  in  his  voice. 

"Why  do  you  not  light  it  yourself?" 
She  drew  away  from  his  outstretched  hand. 
"It  seems  to  me  you  are  a  bit  of  a  tyrant 
in  your  own  house." 

He  drew  a  match  across  his  knee  and 
held  it  towards  her :  by  its  gleam  she  saw 
his  pale,  unsmiling  face,  and  again  that 
darkening  of  the  eyes  which  she  remem 
bered. 

"  Do  you  refuse  me  such  a  little  thing,  — 
my  first  guest  ?  I  ask  it  as  a  most  especial 
grace ! " 

She  took  the  match,  and  knelt  with  it  in 
her  hands ;  but  it  only  flickered  a  moment, 
and  went  out.  "It  will  not  go  for  me. 
You  must  light  it  yourself." 

He  knelt  beside  her  and  struck  another 
match.  "We  will  try  together,"  he  said, 
placing  it  in  her  fingers  and  closing  his 
hand  about  them.  He  held  the  trembling 
fingers  and  the  little  spark  they  guarded 
steadily  against  the  shaving.  It  kindled; 
the  flame  breathed  and  brightened  and 
curled  upward  among  the  crooked  manzanita 


IN  EXILE,  57 

stumps,  illuminating  the  two  entranced 
young  faces  bending  before  it.  Miss 
Frances  rose  to  her  feet,  and  Arnold,  rising 
too,  looked  at  her  with  a  growing  dread  and 
longing  in  his  eyes. 

"You  said  to-day  that  you  were  happy, 
because  in  fancy  you  were  at  home.  Is 
that  the  only  happiness  possible  to  you 
here?" 

"I  am  quite  contented  here,"  she  said. 
"I  am  getting  acclimated." 

"Oh,  don't  be  content:  I  am  not;  I  am 
horribly   otherwise.     I   want    something  — 
so  much  that  I  dare  not  ask  for  it.     You 
know  what  it  is,  --  Frances!  " 

"You  said  once  that  I  reminded  you  — 
of  her :  is  that  the  reason  you  —  Am  I  con 
soling  you?  " 

"Good  God!  I  don't  want  consolation! 
That  thing  never  existed;  but  here  is  the 
reality ;  I  cannot  part  with  it.  I  wish  you 
had  as  little  as  I  have,  outside  of  this  room 
where  we  two  stand  together !  " 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have  anything," 
she  said  under  her  breath. 

"Then,"  said  he,  taking  her  in  his  arms, 
"I  don't  see  but  that  we  are  ready  to  enter 
the  kingdom  of  heaven.  It  seems  very  near 
to  me." 


/ 

V 


58  IN  EXILE. 

They  are  still  in  exile:  they  have  joined 
the  band  of  lotus-eaters  who  inhabit  that 
region  of  the  West  which  is  pervaded  by  a 
subtle  breath  from  the  Orient;  blowing 
across  the  seas  between.  Mrs.  Arnold  has 
not  yet  made  that  first  visit  East  which  is 
said  by  her  Californian  friends  to  be  so  dis 
illusioning,  and  the  old  home  still  hovers, 
like  a  beautiful  mirage,  on  the  receding 
horizon. 


FRIEND   BARTON'S    "CONCERN." 

IT  had  been  "borne  in"  upon  him,  more 
or  less,  during  the  long  winter ;  it  had  not 
relaxed  when  the  frosts  unlocked  their  hold 
and  the  streams  were  set  free  from  their 
long  winter's  silence  among  the  hills.  He 
grew  restless  and  abstracted  under  "the 
turnings  of  the  Lord's  hand  upon  him," 
and  his  speech  unconsciously  shaped  itself 
into  the  Biblical  cadences  which  came  to 
him  in  his  moments  of  spiritual  exercise. 

The  bedrabbled  snows  of  March  shrank 
away  before  the  keen,  quickening  sunbeams; 
the  hills  emerged,  brown  and  sodden,  like 
the  chrysalis  of  the  new  year*;  the  streams 
woke  in  a  tumult,  and  all  day  and  night 
their  voices  called  from  the  hills  back  of 
the  mill;  the  waste-weir  was  a  foaming  tor 
rent,  and  spread  itself  in  muddy  shallows 
across  the  meadow,  beyond  the  old  garden 
where  the  robins  and  bluebirds  were  house 
hunting.  Friend  Barton's  trouble  stirred 
with  the  life-blood  of  the  year,  and  pressed 


60          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

upon  him  sorely ;  but  as  yet  he  gave  it  no 
words.  He  plodded  about,  among  his  lean 
kine,  tempering  the  winds  of  March  to  his 
untimely  lambs,  and  reconciling  unnatural 
ewes  to  their  maternal  duties. 

Friend  Barton  had  never  heard  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 
though  it  was  the  spring  of  1812,  and  Eng 
land  and  America  were  investigating  the 
subject  on  the  seas,  while  the  nations  of 
Europe  were  practically  illustrating  it. 
The  "hospital  tent,"  as  the  boys  called  an 
old  corn -basket,  covered  with  carpet,  which 
stood  beside  the  kitchen  chimney,  was  sel 
dom  without  an  occupant,  —  a  brood  of 
chilled  chickens,  a  weakly  lamb,  or  a  wee 
pig  (with  too  much  blue  in  its  pinkness), 
that  had  been  left  behind  by  its  stouter 
brethren  in  the  race  for  existence.  The 
old  mill  hummed  away  through  the  day, 
and  often  late  into  the  evening  if  time 
pressed,  upon  the  grists  which  added  a  thin, 
intermittent  stream  of  tribute  to  the  fam 
ily  income.  Whenever  work  was  "slack," 
Friend  Barton  was  sawing  or  chopping  in 
the  woodshed  adjoining  the  kitchen;  every 
moment  he  could  seize  or  make  he  was 
there,  stooping  over  the  rapidly  growing 
pile. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."         61 

"Seems  to  me,  father,  thee  's  in  a  great 
hurry  with  the  wood  this  spring.  I  don't 
know  when  we  've  had  such  a  pile  ahead." 

"'T  won't  burn  up  any  faster  for  being 
chopped,"  Friend  Barton  said;  and  then 
his  wife  Rachel  knew  that  if  he  had  a  rea 
son  for  being  "forehanded"  with  the  wood, 
he  was  not  ready  to  give  it. 

One  rainy  April  afternoon,  when  the 
smoky  gray  distances  began  to  take  a  tinge 
of  green,  and  through  the  drip  and  rustle 
of  the  rain  the  call  of  the  robins  sounded, 
Friend  Barton  sat  in  the  door  of  the  barn, 
oiling  the  road-harness.  The  old  chaise 
had  been  wheeled  out  and  greased,  and  its 
cushions  beaten  and  dusted. 

An  ox-team  with  a  load  of  grain  creaked 
up  the  hill  and  stopped  at  the  mill  door. 
The  driver,  seeing  Friend  Barton's  broad- 
brimmed  drab  felt  hat  against  the  dark 
interior  of  the  barn,  came  down  the  short 
lane  leading  from  the  mill,  past  the  house 
and  farm-buildings. 

"Fixin'  up  for  travelin',  Uncle  Tommy?  " 

Vain  compliments,  such  as  worldly  titles 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  were  unacceptable  to 
Thomas  Barton,  and  he  was  generally 
known  and  addressed  as  "Uncle  Tommy" 


62          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

by  the  world's  people  of  a  younger  genera 
tion. 

"It  is  not  in  man  that  walketh  to  direct 
his  own  steps,  neighbor  Jordan.  I  am  get 
ting  myself  in  readiness  to  obey  the  Lord, 
whichever  way  He  shall  call  me." 

Farmer  Jordan  cast  a  shrewd  eye  over 
the  premises.  They  wore  that  patient,  sad, 
exhumed  look  which  old  farm-buildings  are 
apt  to  have  in  early  spring.  The  roofs 
were  black  with  rain,  and  brightened  with 
patches  of  green  moss.  Farmer  Jordan 
instinctively  calculated  how  many  "bunches 
o'  shingle"  would  be  required  to  rescue 
them  from  the  decline  into  which  they  had 
fallen,  indicated  by  these  hectic  green  spots. 

"  Wai,  the  Lord  calls  most  of  us  to  stay 
at  home  and  look  after  things,  such  weather 
as  this.  Good  plantin'  weather;  good 
weather  for  breakin'  ground;  fust-rate 
weather  for  millin' !  This  is  a  reg'lar  mil 
ler's  rain,  Uncle  Tommy.  You  'd  ought  to 
be  takin'  advantage  of  it.  I  've  got  a  grist 
back  here ;  wish  ye  could  manage  to  let  me 
have  it  when  I  come  back  from  store." 

The  grist  was  ground  and  delivered  be 
fore  Friend  Barton  went  in  to  his  supper 
that  night.  Dorothy  Barton  had  been 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."          63 

mixing  bread,  and  was  wiping  her  white 
arms  and  hands  on  the  roller  towel  by  the 
kitchen  door,  as  her  father  stamped  and 
scraped  his  feet  on  the  stones  outside. 

"There!  I  do  believe  I  forgot  to  toll 
neighbor  Jordan's  rye,"  he  said,  as  he  gave 
a  final  rub  on  the  broom  Dorothy  handed 
out  to  him.  "It's  wonderful  how  careless 
I  get!" 

"Well,  father,  I  don't  suppose  thee 'd 
ever  forget,  and  toll  a  grist  twice !  " 

"I  believe  I've  been  mostly  preserved 
from  mistakes  of  that  kind,"  said  Friend 
Barton  gently.  "  Well,  well  !  To  be 
sure,"  he  continued  musingly.  "It  may 
be  the  Lord  who  stays  my  hand  from  gath 
ering  profit  unto  myself  while  his  lambs  go 
unfed." 

Dorothy  put  her  hands  on  her  father's 
shoulders:  she  was  almost  as  tall  as  he, 
and  could  look  into  his  patient,  troubled 
eyes. 

"  Father,  I  know  what  thee  is  thinking  of, 
but  do  think  long.  It  will  be  a  hard  year ; 
the  boys  ought  to  go  to  school ;  and  mother 
is  so  feeble! " 

Friend  Barton's  "concern"  kept  him 
awake  that  night.  His  wife  watched  by  his 


64          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN." 

side,  giving  no  sign,  lest  her  wakeful  pres 
ence  should  disturb  his  silent  wrestlings. 
The  tall,  cherry-wood  clock  in  the  entry 
measured  the  hours,  as  they  passed,  with 
its  slow,  dispassionate  tick. 

At  two  o'clock  Rachel  Barton  was  awak 
ened  from  her  first  sleep  of  weariness  by 
her  husband's  voice,  whispering  heavily  in 
the  darkness. 

"My  way  is  hedged  up!  I  see  no  way 
to  go  forward.  Lord,  strengthen  my  pa 
tience,  that  I  murmur  not,  after  all  I  have 
seen  of  thy  goodness.  I  find  daily  bread 
is  very  desirable;  want  and  necessity  are 
painful  to  nature ;  but  shall  I  follow  Thee 
for  the  sake  of  the  loaves,  or  will  it  do  to 
forsake  Thee  in  times  of  emptiness  and 
abasement?" 

There  was  silence  again,  and  restless  toss- 
ings  and  sighings  continued  the  struggle. 

"Thomas,"  the  wife's  voice  spoke  tremu 
lously  in  the  darkness,  "my  dear  husband,  I 
know  whither  thy  thoughts  are  tending.  If 
the  Spirit  is  with  thee,  do  not  deny  it  for 
our  sakes,  I  pray  thee.  The  Lord  did  not 
give  thee  thy  wife  and  children  to  hang  as 
a  millstone  round  thy  neck.  I  am  thy 
helpmeet,  to  strengthen  thee  in  his  service. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."         65 

I  am  thankful  that  I  have  my  health  this 
spring  better  than  usual,  and  Dorothy  is  a 
wonderful  help.  Her  spirit  was  sent  to 
sustain  me  in  thy  long  absences.  Go,  dear, 
and  serve  our  Master,  who  has  called  thee 
in  these  bitter  strivings!  Dorothy  and  I 
will  keep  things  together  as  well  as  we  can. 
The  way  will  open  —  never  fear!"  She 
put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  face  in 
the  darkness ;  there  were  tears  on  the  fur 
rowed  cheeks.  "Try  to  sleep,  dear,  and 
let  thy  spirit  have  rest.  There  is  but  one 
answer  to  this  call." 

With  the  first  drowsy  twitterings  of  the 
birds,  when  the  crescent-shaped  openings 
in  the  board  shutters  began  to  define  them 
selves  clearly  in  the  shadowy  room,  they 
a'rose  and  went  about  their  morning  tasks 
in  silence.  Friend  Barton's  step  was  a 
little  heavier  than  usual,  and  the  hollows 
round  his  wife's  pale  brown  eyes  were  a 
little  deeper.  As  he  sat  on  the  splint-bot 
tomed  chair  by  the  kitchen  fireplace,  draw 
ing  on  his  boots,  she  placed  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  and  touched  with  her  cheek 
the  worn  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

"Thee  will  lay  this  concern  before  meet 
ing  to-morrow,  father?" 


66         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

"  I  had  it  on  my  mind  to  do  so,  —  if  my 
light  be  not  quenched  before  then." 

Friend  Barton's  light  was  not  quenched. 
Words  came  to  him,  without  seeking,  —  a 
sure  sign  that  the  Spirit  was  with  him,  — 
in  which  to  "open  the  concern  "  that  had 
ripened  in  his  mind,  of  a  religious  visit  to 
the  meeting  constituting  the  yearly  meet 
ings  of  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore.  A 
"minute"  was  given  him,  encouraging  him 
in  the  name,  and  with  the  full  concurrence, 
of  the  monthly  meetings  of  Nine  Partners 
and  Stony  Valley,  to  go  wherever  the  Truth 
might  lead  him. 

While  Friend  Barton  was  thus  freshly 
anointed,  and  "  abundantly  encouraged," 
his  wife,  Rachel,  was  talking  with  Dorothy, 
in  the  low  upper  chamber  known  as  the 
"wheel-room." 

Dorothy  was  spinning  wool  on  the  big 
wheel,  dressed  in  her  light  calico  short 
gown  and  brown  quilted  petticoat;  her 
arms  were  bare,  and  her  hair  was  gathered 
away  from  her  flushed  cheeks  and  knotted 
behind  her  ears.  The  roof  sloped  down  on 
one  side,  and  the  light  game  from  a  long, 
low  window  under  the  eaves.  There  was 
another  window  (shaped  like  a  half-moon, 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN."         67 

high  up  in  the  peak),  but  it  sent  down  only 
one  long  beam  of  sunlight,  which  glimmered 
across  the  dust  and  fell  upon  Dorothy's 
white  neck. 

The  wheel  was  humming  a  quick  measure 
and  Dorothy  trod  lightly  back  and  forth, 
the  wheel-pin  in  one  hand,  the  other  hold 
ing  the  tense,  lengthening  thread,  which 
the  spindle  devoured  again. 

"Dorothy,  thee  looks  warm:  can't  thee 
sit  down  a  moment,  while  I  talk  to  thee?  " 

"Is  it  anything  important,  mother?  I 
want  to  get  my  twenty  knots  before  din 
ner."  She  paused  as  she  joined  a  long 
tress  of  wool  at  the  spindle.  "Is  it  any 
thing  about  father?" 

"Yes,  it  's  about  father,  and  all  of  us." 

"I  know,"  said  Dorothy,  with  a  sigh. 
"He  's  going  away  again!  " 

"Yes,  dear.  He  feels  that  he  is  called. 
It  is  a  time  of  trouble  and  contention 
everywhere:  'the  harvest,'  truly,  'is  plente 
ous,  but  the  laborers  are  few. ' ' 

"There  are  not  so  many  'laborers'  here, 
mother,  though  to  be  sure,  the  har 
vest  "  - 

"Dorothy,  my  daughter,  don't  let  a 
spirit  of  levity  creep  into  thy  speech.  Thy 


68          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN." 

father  has  striven  and  wrestled  with  his 
urgings.  I  've  seen  it  working  on  him  all 
winter.  He  feels,  now,  it  is  the  Lord's 
will." 

"I  don't  see  how  he  can  be  so  sure," 
said  Dorothy,  swaying  gloomily  to  and  fro 
against  the  wheel.  "I  don't  care  for  my 
self,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  work,  but  thee  's 
not  able  to  do  what  thee  does  now,  mother. 
If  I  have  outside  things  to  look  after,  how 
can  I  help  thee  as  I  should  ?  And  the  boys 
are  about  as  much  dependence  as  a  flock 
of  barn  swallows !  " 

"Don't  thee  fret  about  me,  dear;  the  way 
will  open.  Thy  father  has  thought  and 
planned  for  us.  Have  patience  while  I  tell 
thee.  Thee  knows  that  Walter  Evesham's 
pond  is  small  and  his  mill  is  doing  a  thriv 
ing  business?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  know  it!"  Dorothy  ex 
claimed.  "He  has  his  own  share,  and  ours 
too,  most  of  it!  " 

"Wait,  dear,  wait!  Thy  father  has 
rented  him  the  ponds,  to  use  when  his  own 
gives  out.  He  is  to  have  the  control  of  the 
water,  and  it  will  give  us  a  little  income, 
even  though  the  old  mill  does  stand  idle." 

"He  may  as  well  take  the  mill,  too.     If 


FRIEND  BARTONS   "  CONCERN."          69 

father  is  away  all  summer  it  will  be  useless 
ever  to  start  it  again.  Thee  '11  see,  mother, 
How  it  will  end,  if  Walter  Evesham  has  the 
custom  and  the  water  all  summer.  I  think 
it's  miserable  for  a  young  man  to  be  so 
keen  about  money." 

"Dorothy,  seems  to  me  thee  's  hasty  in 
thy  judgments.  I  never  heard  that  said 
of  Walter  Evesham.  His  father  left  him 
with  capital  to  improve  his  mill.  It  does 
better  work  than  ours;  we  can't  complain 
of  that.  Thy  father  was  never  one  to  study 
much  after  ways  of  making  money.  He 
felt  he  had  no  right  to  more  than  an  honest 
livelihood.  I  don't  say  that  Walter  Eve- 
sham  's  in  the  wrong.  We  know  that  Joseph 
took  advantage  of  his  opportunities,  though 
I  can't  say  that  I  ever  felt  much  unity  with 
some  of  his  transactions.  What  would  thee 
have,  my  dear?  Thee  's  discouraged  with 
thy  father  for  choosing  the  thorny  way, 
which  we  tread  with  him;  but  thee  seems 
no  better  satisfied  with  one  who  considers 
the  flesh  and  its  wants ! ' 

"I  don't  know,  mother,  what  I  want  for 
myself ;  that  does  n't  matter ;  but  for  thee  I 
would  have  rest  from  all  these  cruel  worries 
thee  has  borne  so  long." 


70          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  mother's  lap 
and  put  her  strong  young  arms  about  the 
frail,  toil-bent  form. 

"There,  there,  dear.  Try  to  rule  thy 
spirit,  Dorothy.  Thee  's  too  much  worked 
up  about  this.  They  are  not  worries  to  me. 
I  am  thankful  we  have  nothing  to  decide 
one  way  or  the  other,  only  to  do  our  best 
with  what  is  given  us.  Thee  's  not  thyself, 
dear.  Go  downstairs  and  fetch  in  the 
clothes,  and  don't  hurry;  stay  out  till  thee 
gets  more  composed." 

Dorothy  did  not  succeed  in  bringing  her 
self  into  unity  with  her  father's  call,  but 
she  came  to  a  fuller  realization  of  his  strug 
gle.  When  he  bade  them  good-by  his  face 
showed  what  it  had  cost  him;  but  Rachel 
was  calm  and  cheerful.  The  pain  of  part 
ing  is  keenest  to  those  who  go,  but  it  stays 
longer  with  those  that  are  left  behind. 

"Dorothy,  take  good  care  of  thy  mo 
ther!"  Friend  Barton  said,  taking  his 
daughter's  face  between  his  hands  and 
gravely  kissing  her  brow  between  the  low- 
parted  ripples  of  her  hair. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  said,  looking  into  his 
eyes;  "Thee  knows  I  'm  thy  eldest  son." 

They  watched  the  old  chaise  swing  round 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  "  CONCERN:'          71 

the  corner  of  the  lane,  then  the  pollard  wil 
lows  shut  it  from  sight. 

"Come,  mother,"  said  Dorothy,  hurrying 
her  in  at  the  gate.  "I  'm  going  to  make  a 
great  pot  of  mush,  and  have  it  hot  for 
supper,  and  fried  for  breakfast,  and  warmed 
up  with  molasses  for  dinner,  and  there  '11 
be  some  cold  with  milk  for  supper,  and  we 
shan't  have  any  cooking  to  do  at  all! ' 

They  went  around  by  the  kitchen  door. 
Rachel  stopped  in  the  woodshed,  and  the 
tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"  Dear  father !  How  he  has  worked  over 
that  wood,  early  and  late,  to  spare  us!  " 

We  will  not  revive  Dorothy's  struggles 
with  the  farm-work,  and  with  the  boys. 
They  were  an  isolated  family  at  the  mill- 
house;  their  peculiar  faith  isolated  them 
still  more,  and  they  were  twelve  miles  from 
meeting  and  the  settlement  of  Friends  at 
Stony  Valley.  Dorothy's  pride  kept  her 
silent  about  her  needs,  lest  they  might  bring 
reproach  upon  her  father  among  the  neigh 
bors,  who  would  not  be  likely  to  feel  the 
urgency  of  his  spiritual  summons. 

The  summer  heats  came  on  apace  and  the 
nights  grew  shorter.  It  seemed  to  Dorothy 
that  she  had  hardly  stretched  out  her  tired 


72          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

young  body  and  forgotten  her  cares,  in  the 
low,  attic  bedroom,  before  the  east  was 
streaked  with  light  and  the  birds  were  sing 
ing  in  the  apple-trees,  whose  falling  blos 
soms  drifted  in  at  the  window. 

One  day  in  early  June,  Friend  Barton's 
flock  of  sheep  (consisting  of  nine  experi 
enced  ewes,  six  yearlings,  and  a  sprinkling 
of  close-curled  lambs  whose  legs  had  not 
yet  come  into  mature  relations  with  their 
bodies)  was  gathered  in  a  wattled  inclo- 
sure,  beside  the  stream  that  flowed  into 
the  mill-head.  It  was  supplied  by  the 
waste  from  the  pond,  and,  when  the  gate 
was  shut,  rambled  easily  over  the  gray  slate 
pebbles,  with  here  and  there  a  fall  just 
forcible  enough  to  serve  as  a  douche -bath 
for  a  well-grown  sheep.  The  victims  were 
panting  in  their  heavy  fleeces,  and  mingling 
their  hoarse,  plaintive  tremolo  with  the  rip 
ple  of  the  water  and  the  sound  of  young 
voices  in  a  frolic.  Dorothy  had  divided 
her  forces  for  the  washing  to  the  best  ad 
vantage.  The  two  elder  boys  stood  in  mid 
stream  to  receive  the  sheep,  which  she, 
with  the  help  of  little  Jimmy,  caught  and 
dragged  to  the  bank. 

The   boys   were   at   work   now  upon   an 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  "  CONCERN."          73 

elderly  ewe,  while  Dorothy  stood  on  the 
brink  of  the  stream  braced  against  an  ash 
sapling,  dragging  forward  by  the  fleece  a 
beautiful  but  reluctant  yearling.  Her  bare 
feet  were  incased  in  a  pair  of  moccasins 
that  laced  around  the  ankle;  her  petti 
coats  were  kilted,  and  her  broad  hat  bound 
down  with  a  ribbon;  one  sleeve  was  rolled 
up,  the  other  had  been  sacrificed  in  a  scuffle 
in  the  sheep-pen.  The  new  candidate  for 
immersion  stood  bleating  and  trembling 
with  her  forefeet  planted  against  the  slip 
pery  bank,  pushing  back  with  all  her 
strength  while  Jimmy  propelled  from  the 
rear. 

"Boys!"  Dorothy's  clear  voice  called 
across  the  stream.  "Do  hurry!  She's 
been  in  long  enough,  now !  Keep  her  head 
up,  can't  you,  and  squeeze  the  wool  hard! 
You're  not  half  washing!  Oh,  Reuby! 
thee  '11  drown  her !  Keep  her  head  up !  " 

Another  unlucky  douse  and  another  half- 
smothered  bleat,  —  Dorothy  released  the 
yearling  and  plunged  to  the  rescue.  "Go 
after  that  lamb,  Reuby!"  she  cried  with 
exasperation  in  her  voice.  Reuby  followed 
the  yearling,  that  had  disappeared  over 
the  orchard  slope,  upsetting  an  obstacle  in 


74          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

its  path,  which  happened  to  be  Jimmy. 
He  was  wailing  now  on  the  bank,  while 
Dorothy,  with  the  ewe's  nose  tucked  com 
fortably  in  the  bend  of  her  arm,  was  part 
ing  and  squeezing  the  fleece,  with  the  water 
swirling  round  her.  Her  stout  arms  ached, 
and  her  ears  were  stunned  with  the  inces 
sant  bleatings;  she  counted  with  dismay 
the  sheep  still  waiting  in  the  pen.  "Oh, 
Jimmy!  Do  stop  crying,  or  else  go  to  the 
house! " 

"He  'd  better  go  after  Reuby,"  said 
Sheppard  Barton,  who  was  now  Dorothy's 
sole  dependence. 

"Oh  yes,  do,  Jimmy,  that 's  a  good  boy! 
Tell  him  to  let  the  yearling  go  and  come 
back  quick." 

The  water  had  run  low  that  morning  in 
Evesham's  pond.  He  shut  down  the  mill, 
and  strode  up  the  hills,  across  lots,  to  raise 
the  gate  of  the  lower  Barton  pond,  which 
had  been  heading  up  for  his  use.  He 
passed  the  cornfield  where,  a  month  before, 
he  had  seen  pretty  Dorothy  Barton  drop 
ping  corn  with  her  brothers.  It  made  him 
ache  to  think  of  Dorothy  with  her  feeble 
mother,  the  boys  as  wild  as  preachers' 
sons  proverbially  are,  and  the  old  farm  run- 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   "CONCERN."          75 

ning  down  on  her  hands;  the  fences  all 
needed  mending,  and  there  went  Reuben 
Barton,  now,  careering  over  the  fields  in 
chase  of  a  stray  yearling.  His  mother's 
house  was  big,  and  lonely,  and  empty;  and 
he  flushed  as  he  thought  of  the  "one  ewe- 
lamb  "  he  coveted  out  of  Friend  Barton's 
rugged  pastures. 

As  Evesham  raised  the  gate,  and  leaned 
to  watch  the  water  swirl  and  gurgle  through 
the  "trunk,"  sucking  the  long  weeds  with 
it,  and  thickening  with  its  tumult  the  clear 
current  of  the  stream,  the  sound  of  voices 
and  the  bleating  of  sheep  came  up  from 
below.  He  had  not  the  farming  instincts  in 
his  blood ;  the  distant  bleating,  the  hot  June 
sunshine  and  cloudless  sky  did  not  suggest 
to  him  sheep-washing;  but  now  came  a  boy's 
voice  shouting  and  a  cry  of  distress,  and  he 
remembered  with  a  thrill  that  Friend  Bar 
ton  used  the  stream  for  that  peaceful  pur 
pose.  He  shut  down  the  gate  and  tore  along 
through  the  ferns  and  tangled  grass  till  he 
came  to  the  sheep -pen,  where  the  bank  was 
muddy  and  trampled.  The  prisoners  were 
bleating  drearily  and  looking  with  longing 
eyes  across  to  the  other  side,  where  those 
who  had  suffered  were  now  straying  and 


76          FRIEND  BARTON'S    "  CONCERN." 

cropping  the  short  turf  through  the  lights 
and  shadows  of  the  orchard. 

There  was  no  other  sign  of  life,  except 
a  broad  hat  with  a  brown  ribbon  buffeted 
about  in  an  eddy  among  the  stones.  The 
stream  dipped  now  below  the  hill,  and  the 
current,  still  racing  fast  with  the  impetus 
he  had  given  it,  shot  away  amongst  the 
hazel  thickets  that  crowded  close  to  the 
brink.  He  was  obliged  to  make  a  detour 
by  the  orchard  and  to  come  out  below  at 
the  "mill -head,"  a  black,  deep  pool  with  an 
ugly  ripple  setting  across  it  to  the  head- 
gate.  He  saw  something  white  clinging 
there,  and  ran  round  the  brink.  It  was 
the  sodden  fleece  of  the  old  ewe,  which  had 
been  drifted  against  the  head -gate  and  held 
there  to  her  death.  Evesham,  with  a  sick 
ening  contraction  of  the  heart,  threw  off  his 
jacket  for  a  plunge,  when  Dorothy's  voice 
called  rather  faintly  from  the  willows  on  the 
opposite  bank. 

"Don't  jump!  I  'm  here,"  she  said. 
Evesham  searched  the  willows  and  found 
her  seated  in  the  sun,  just  beyond,  half 
buried  in  a  bed  of  ferns. 

"I  shouldn't  have  called  thee,"  she  said 
shyly,  as  he  sank  pale  and  panting  beside 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  "CONCERN."          77 

her,  "but  thee  looked  —  I  thought  thee  was 
going  to  jump  into  the  mill-head!  " 

"I  thought  you  were  there,  Dorothy!  " 

"I  was  there  quite  long  enough.  Shep 
pulled  me  out ;  I  was  too  tired  to  help  my 
self  much."  Dorothy  held  her  palm  pressed 
against  her  temple  and  the  blood  trickled 
from  beneath,  streaking  her  pale,  wet 
cheek. 

"He  's  gone  to  the  house  to  get  me  a 
cloak.  I  don't  want  mother  to  see  me,  not 
yet,"  she  said. 

"I  'm  afraid  you  ought  not  to  wait, 
Dorothy.  Let  me  take  you  to  the  house, 
won't  you?  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  get  a 
deadly  chill." 

Dorothy  did  not  look  in  the  least  like 
death.  She  was  blushing  now,  because 
Evesham  would  think  it  so  strange  of  her 
to  stay,  and  yet  she  could  not  rise  in  her 
wet  clothes,  that  clung  to  her  like  the  calyx 
to  a  bud. 

"Let  me  see  that  cut,  Dorothy!  " 

"Oh,  it 's  nothing.  *I  don't  wish  thee  to 
look  at  it!" 

"  But  I  will !  Do  you  want  to  make  me 
your  murderer,  sitting  there  in  your  wet 
clothes  with  a  cut  on  your  head?" 


78          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

He  drew  away  her  hand;  the  wound,  in 
deed,  was  no  great  affair,  but  he  bound  it 
up  deftly  with  strips  of  his  handkerchief. 
Dorothy's  wet  curls  touched  his  fingers  and 
clung  to  them,  and  her  eyelashes  drooped 
lower  and  lower. 

"I  think  it  was  very  stupid  of  thee. 
Didn't  thee  hear  us  from  the  dam?  I'm 
sure  we  made  noise  enough." 

"Yes,  I  heard  you  when  it  was  too  late.     I 
heard  the  sheep  before,  but  how  could  I  im 
agine  that  you,  Dorothy,  and  three  boys  as 
big  as  cockerels,  were  sheep-washing?    It 's 
/the  most  preposterous  thing  I  ever  heard  of ! ' 

"Well,  I  can't  help  being  a  woman,  and 
the  sheep  had  to  be  washed.  I  think  there 
ought  to  be  more  men  in  the  world  when 
half  of  them  are  preaching  and  fighting." 

"If  you  'd  only  let  the  men  who  are  left 
help  you  a  little,  Dorothy." 

"I  don't  want  any  help.     I   only  don't 
\  want  to  be  washed  into  the  mill -head." 
\      They  both  laughed,  and  Evesham  began 
^again  entreating  her  to  let  him  take  her  to 
the  house. 

"Has  n't  thee  a  coat  or  something  I 
could  put  around  me  until  Shep  comes?" 
said  Dorothy.  "He  must  be  here  soon." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."          79 

"Yes,  I  've  a  jacket  here  somewhere." 

He  sped  away  to  find  it,  and  faithless 
Dorothy,  as  the  willows  closed  between 
them,  sprang  to  her  feet  and  fled  like  a 
startled  Naiad  to  the  house. 

When  Evesham,  pushing  through  the 
willows,  saw  nothing  but  the  bed  of  wet, 
crushed  ferns  and  the  trail  through  the  long 
grass  where  Dorothy's  feet  had  fled,  he 
smiled  grimly  to  himself,  remembering  that 
u ewe-lambs"  are  not  always  as  meek  as 
they  look. 

That  evening  Rachel  had  received  a  letter 
from  Friend  Barton  and  was  preparing  to 
read  it  aloud  to  the  children.  They  were 
in  the  kitchen,  where  the  boys  had  been 
helping  Dorothy  in  a  desultory  manner  to 
shell  corn  for  the  chickens ;  but  now  all  was 
silence  while  Rachel  wiped  her  glasses  and 
turned  the  large  sheet  of  paper,  squared 
with  many  foldings,  to  the  candle. 

She  read  the  date,  " c  London  Grove, 
5th  month,  22d.  —  Most  affectionately  be 
loved.'  '  uHe  means  us  all,"  said  Rachel, 
turning  to  the  children  with  a  tender  smile. 
"It 's  spelled  with  a  small  6." 

"He  means  thee!  "  said  Dorothy,  laugh 
ing.  "Thee  's  not  such  a  very  big  be 
loved." 


80         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "I  don't 
know  that  the  opening  of  the  letter  is  of 
general  interest,"  Eachel  mused,  with  her 
eyes  traveling  slowly  down  the  page.  "He 
says:  'In  regard  to  my  health,  lest  thee 
should  concern  thyself,  I  am  thankful  to 
say  I  have  never  enjoyed  better  since  years 
have  made  me  acquainted  with  my  infirmi 
ties  of  body,  and  I  earnestly  hope  that  my 
dear  wife  and  children  are  enjoying  the 
same  blessing. 

"'I  trust  the  boys  are  not  deficient  in 
obedience  and  helpfulness.  At  Sheppard's 
age  I  had  already  begun  to  take  the  duties 
of  a  man  upon  my  shoulders.'  " 

Sheppard  giggled  uncomfortably,  and 
Dorothy  laughed  outright. 

"Oh,  if  father  only  knew  how  good  the 
boys  are !  Mother,  thee  must  write  and  tell 
him  about  their  'helpfulness  and  obedi 
ence  ' !  Thee  can  tell  him  their  appetites 
keep  up  pretty  well;  they  manage  to  take 
their  meals  regularly,  and  they  are  always 
out  of  bed  by  eight  o'clock  to  help  me 
hang  up  the  milking-stool !  " 

"Just  wait  till  thee  gets  into  the  mill- 
head  again,  Dorothy  Barton !  Thee  need  n't 
come  to  me  to  help  thee  out! " 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."          81 

"Go  on,  mother.  Don't  let  the  boys  in 
terrupt  thee!" 

"Well,"  said  Rachel,  rousing  herself, 
"where  was  I?  Oh,  'At  Sheppard's  age'! 
Well,  next  come  some  allusions  to  the  places 
where  he  has  visited  and  his  spiritual  exer 
cises  there.  I  don't  know  that  the  boys  are 
quite  old  enough  to  enter  into  this  yet. 
Thee  'd  better  read  it  thyself,  Dorothy. 
I  'm  keeping  all  father's  letters  for  the 
boys  to  read  when  they  are  old  enough  to 
appreciate  them." 

"Well,  I  think  thee  might  read  to  us 
about  where  he  'sbeen  preachin'.  We  can 
understand  a  great  deal  more  than  thee 
thinks  we  can,"  said  Shep  in  an  injured 
voice.  "  Reuby  can  preach  some  himself. 
Thee  ought  to  hear  him,  mother.  It 's  al 
most  as  good  as  meetin'." 

"I  wondered  how  Reuby  spent  his  time," 
said  Dorothy,  and  the  mother  hastened  to 
interpose. 

"Well!  here  's  a  passage  that  may  be 
interesting:  'On  sixth  day  attended  the 
youths'  meeting  here,  a  pretty  favored 
time  on  the  whole.  Joseph'  (that 's  Joseph 
Carpenter;  he  mentions  him  aways  back) 
'  had  good  service  in  lively  testimony,  while 


82         FRIEND  BARTON'S   «  CONCERN." 

I  was  calm  and  easy  without  a  word  to 
say.  At  a  meeting  at  Plumstead  we  suf 
fered  long,  but  at  length  we  felt  relieved. 
The  unfaithful  were  admonished,  the  youth 
invited,  and  the  heavy-hearted  encouraged. 
It  was  a  heavenly  time.'  Heretofore  he 
seems  to  have  been  closed  up  with  silence  a 
good  deal,  but  now  the  way  opens  contin 
ually  for  him  to  free  himself.  He  's  been 
'much  favored,'  he  says,  'of  late.'  Eeuby, 
what 's  thee  doing  to  thy  brothers  ?  "  (Shep 
and  Reuby,  who  had  been  persecuting 
Jimmy  by  pouring  handfuls  of  corn  down 
the  neck  of  his  jacket  until  he  had  taken 
refuge  behind  Dorothy's  chair,  were  now 
recriminating  with  corn-cobs  on  each  other's 
faces.)  "Dorothy,  can't  thee  keep  those 
boys  quiet?  " 

"Did  thee  ever  know  them  to  be  quiet?" 
said  Dorothy,  helping  Jimmy  to  relieve  him 
self  of  his  corn. 

"  Well  now,  listen."  Rachel  contin 
ued  placidly,  "'  Second  day,  27th  '  (of  fifth 
month,  he  means;  the  letter  's  been  a  long 
time  coming),  'attended  their  mid-week 
meeting  at  London  Grove,  where  my  tongue, 
as  it  were,  clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth, 
while  Hannah  Husbands  was  much  favored 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."          83 

and  enabled  to  lift  up  her  voice  like  the 
song  of  an  angel 

"Who's  Hannah  Husbands?"  Dorothy 
interrupted. 

"Thee  doesn't  know  her,  dear.  She  was 
second  cousin  to  thy  father's  stepmother; 
the  families  were  not  congenial,  I  believe, 
but  she  has  a  great  gift  for  the  ministry." 

"I  should  think  she  'd  better  be  at  home 
with  her  children,  if  she  has  any.  Fancy 
thee,  mother,  going  about  to  strange  meet 
ings  and  lifting  up  thy  voice  " 

"Hush,  hush,  Dorothy!  Thy  tongue's 
running  away  with  thee.  Consider  the  ex 
ample  thee  's  setting  the  boys." 

"Thee  'd  better  write  to  father  about 
Dorothy,  mother.  Perhaps  Hannah  Hus 
bands  would  like  to  know  what  she  thinks 
about  her  preachin'." 

"Well,  now,  be  quiet,  all  of  you. 
Here 's  something  about  Dorothy:  CI  know 
that  my  dear  daughter  Dorothy  is  faith 
ful  and  loving,  albeit  somewhat  quick  of 
speech  and  restive  under  obligation.  I 
would  have  thee  remind  her  that  an  unwill 
ingness  to  accept  help  from  others  argues  a 
want  of  Christian  Meekness.  Entreat  her 
from  me  not  to  conceal  her  needs  from  our 


84          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

neighbors,  if  so  be  she  find  her  work  oppres 
sive.  We  know  them  to  be  of  kindly  inten 
tion,  though  not  of  our  way  of  thinking  in 
all  particulars.  Let  her  receive  help  from 
them,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  instruments 
of  the  Lord's  protection,  which  it  were  im 
piety  and  ingratitude  to  deny. ' ' 

"There!"  cried  Shep.  "That  means 
thee  is  to  let  Luke  Jordan  finish  the  sheep- 
washing.  Thee  'd  better  have  done  it  in 
the  first  place.  We  shouldn't  have  the  old 
ewe  to  pick  if  thee  had." 

Dorothy  was  dimpling  at  the  idea  of 
Luke  Jordan  in  the  character  of  an  instru 
ment  of  heavenly  protection.  She  had  not 
regarded  him  in  that  light,  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  but  had  rejected  him  with  scorn. 

"He  may,  if  he  wants  to,"  she  said; 
"  but  you  boys  shall  drive  them  over.  1 11 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"And  shear  them  too,  Dorothy?  He 
asked  to  shear  them  long  ago." 

"  Well,  let  him  shear  them  and  keep  the 
wool  too." 

"I  would  n't  say  that,  Dorothy,"  said 
Eachel  Barton.  "We  need  the  wool,  and 
it  seems  as  if  over-payment  might  not  be 
quite  honest,  either." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."          85 

"Oh,  mother,  mother!  What  a  mother 
thee  is!  "cried  Dorothy  laughing  and  rump 
ling  Rachel's  cap -strings  in  a  tumultuous 
embrace. 

"She's  a  great  deal  too  good  for  thee, 
Dorothy  Barton." 

"She  's  too  good  for  all  of  us.  How  did 
thee  ever  come  to  have  such  a  graceless  set 
of  children,  mother?" 

"I'm  very  well  satisfied,"  said  Rachel. 
"But  now  do  be  quiet  and  let 's  finish  the 
letter.  We  must  get  to  bed  some  time  to 
night!" 

The  wild  clematis  was  in  blossom  now; 
the  fences  were  white  with  it,  and  the  rusty 
cedars  were  crowned  with  virgin  wreaths; 
but  the  weeds  were  thick  in  the  garden  and 
in  the  potato  patch.  Dorothy,  stretching 
her  cramped  back,  looked  longingly  up  the 
shadowy  vista  of  the  farm-lane  that  had 
nothing  to  do  but  ramble  off  into  the  re 
motest  green  fields,  where  the  daisies'  faces 
were  as  white  and  clear  as  in  early  June. 

One  hot  August  night  she  came  home 
late  from  the  store.  The  stars  were  thick 
in  the  sky;  the  katydids  made  the  night 
oppressive  with  their  rasping  questionings, 


86         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

and  a  hoarse  revel  of  frogs  kept  the  ponds 
from  falling  asleep  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hills. 

"Is  thee  very  tired  to-night,  Dorothy?" 
her  mother  asked,  as  she  took  her  seat  on 
the  low  step  of  the  porch.  "Would  thee 
mind  turning  old  John  out  thyself?  " 

"No,  mother,  I  'm  not  tired.  But  why? 
Oh,  /  know!  "  cried  Dorothy  with  a  quick 
laugh.  "The  dance  at  Slocum's  barn.  I 
thought  those  boys  were  uncommonly  help 
ful." 

"Yes,  dear,  it's  but  natural  they  should 
want  to  see  it.  Hark!  we  can  hear  the 
music  from  here." 

They  listened,  and  the  breeze  brought 
across  the  fields  the  sound  of  fiddles  and 
the  rhythmic  tramp  of  feet,  softened  by  the 
distance.  Dorothy's  young  pulses  leaped. 

"Mother,  is  it  any  harm  for  them  just  to 
see  it?  They  have  so  little  fun,  except 
what  they  get  out  of  teasing  and  shirking." 

"My  dear,  thy  father  would  never  coun 
tenance  such  a  scene  of  frivolity,  or  permit 
one  of  his  children  to  look  upon  it ;  through 
our  eyes  and  ears  the  world  takes  possession 
of  our  hearts." 

"Then  I  'm  to  spare  the  boys  this  temp- 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN."         87 

tation,  mother?     Thee  will  trust  me  to  pass 
the  barn?" 

"I  would  trust  my  boys,  if  they  were  thy 
age,  Dorothy;  but  their  resolution  is  tender 
like  their  years." 

It  might  be  questioned  whether  the  frame 
of  mind  in  which  the  boys  went  to  bed  that 
night  under  their  mother's  eye,  for  Kachel 
could  be  firm  in  a  case  of  conscience,  was 
more  improving  than  the  frivolity  of  Slo- 
cum's  barn. 

"Mother,"  called  Dorothy,  looking  in  at 
the  kitchen  window  where  Kachel  was  stoop 
ing  over  the  embers  in  the  fireplace  to  light 
a  bedroom  candle,  "I  want  to  speak  to 
thee." 

Rachel  came  to  the  window,  screening 
the  candle  with  her  hand. 

"  Will  thee  trust  me  to  look  at  the  dan 
cing  a  little  while?     It  is  so  very  near." 
"Why,  Dorothy,  does  thee  want  to?" 
"Yes,    mother,    I    believe   I    do.     I've 
never  seen  a  dance  in  my  life.     It  cannot 
ruin  me  to  look  just  once." 
Rachel  stood  puzzled. 
"Thee  's  old  enough  to  judge  for  thyself, 
Dorothy.     But,    my  child,    do  not  tamper 
with  thy  inclinations  through  heedless  curi- 


88         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

osity.     Thee  knows  thee  's  more  impulsive 
than  I  could  wish  for  thy  own  peace." 

"  I  '11  be  very  careful,  mother.  If  I 
feel  in  the  least  wicked  I  will  come  straight 
away." 

She  kissed  her  mother's  hand  that  rested 
on  the  window-sill.  Rachel  did  not  like 
the  kiss,  nor  Dorothy's  brilliant  eyes  and 
flushed  cheeks,  as  the  candle  revealed  them 
like  a  fair  picture  painted  on  the  darkness. 
She  hesitated,  but  Dorothy  sped  away  up 
the  lane  with  old  John  lagging  at  his  hal 
ter. 

Was  it  the  music  growing  nearer  that 
quickened  her  breathing,  or  only  the  close 
ness  of  the  night  shut  in  between  the  wild 
grapevine  curtains  swung  from  one  dark 
cedar  column  to  another  ?  She  caught  the 
sweetbrier's  breath  as  she  hurried  by,  and 
now  a  loop  in  the  leafy  curtain  revealed  the 
pond,  lying  black  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills 
with  a  whole  heaven  of  stars  reflected  in  it. 
Old  John  stumbled  along  over  the  stones, 
cropping  the  grass  as  he  went.  Dorothy 
tugged  at  his  halter  and  urged  him  on  to 
the  head  of  the  lane,  where  two  farm-gates 
stood  at  right  angles.  One  of  them  was 
open  and  a  number  of  horses  were  tethered 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."          89 

in  a  row  along  the  fence  within.  They 
whinnied  a  cheerful  greeting  to  John  as 
Dorothy  slipped  his  halter  and  shut  him 
into  the  field  adjoining.  Now  should  she 
walk  into  temptation  with  her  eyes  and  ears 
open?  The  gate  stood  wide,  with  only  one 
field  of  perfumed  meadow-grass  between 
her  and  the  lights  and  music  of  Slocum's 
barn.  The  sound  of  revelry  by  night  could 
hardly  have  taken  a  more  innocent  form 
than  this  rustic  dancing  of  neighbors  after 
a  "raisin'  bee,"  but  had  it  been  the  rout  of 
Comus  and  his  crew,  and  Dorothy  the  Lady 
Una  trembling  near,  her  heart  could  hardly 
have  throbbed  more  quickly  as  she  crossed 
the  dewy  meadow.  A  young  maple  stood 
within  ten  rods  of  the  barn,  and  here  she 
crouched  in  shadow. 

The  great  doors  stood  wide  open  and  lan 
terns  were  hung  from  the  beams,  lighting 
the  space  between  the  mows  where  a  dance 
was  set,  with  youths  and  maidens  in  two 
long  rows.  The  fiddlers  sat  on  barrel-heads 
near  the  door;  a  lantern  hanging  just  be 
hind  projected  their  shadows  across  the 
square  of  light  on  the  trodden  space  in 
front,  where  they  executed  a  grotesque  pan 
tomime,  keeping  time  to  the  music  with 


90          FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERNS 

spectral  wavings  and  noddings.  The  dan 
cers  were  Dorothy's  young  neighbors,  whom 
she  had  known,  and  yet  not  known,  all 
her  life,  but  they  had  the  strangeness  of 
familiar  faces  seen  suddenly  in  some  fan 
tastic  dream. 

Surely  that  was  Nancy  Slocum  in  the 
bright  pink  gown  heading  the  line  of  girls, 
and  that  was  Luke  Jordan's  sunburnt  pro 
file  leaning  from  his  place  to  pluck  a  straw 
from  the  mow  behind  him.  They  were 
marching,  and  the  measured  tramp  of  feet 
keeping  solid  time  to  the  fiddles  set  a 
strange  tumult  vibrating  in  Dorothy's  blood; 
and  now  it  stopped,  with  a  thrill,  as  she 
recognized  that  Evesham  was  there,  march 
ing  with  the  young  men,  and  that  his  peer 
was  not  among  them.  The  perception  of 
his  difference  came  to  her  with  a  vivid 
shock.  He  was  coming  forward  now  with 
his  light,  firm  step,  formidable  in  evening 
dress  and  with  a  smile  of  subtle  triumph 
in  his  eyes,  to  meet  Nancy  Slocum  in  the 
bright  pink  gown.  Dorothy  felt  she  hated 
pink  of  all  the  colors  her  faith  had  abjured. 
She  could  see,  in  spite  of  the  obnoxious 
gown,  that  Nancy  was  very  pretty.  He 
was  taking  her  first  by  the  right  hand,  then 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."         91 

by  the  left,  and  turning  her  gayly  about ; 
and  now  they  were  meeting  again  for  the 
fourth  or  fifth  time  in  the  centre  of  the 
barn,  with  all  eyes  upon  them,  and  the 
music  lingered  while  Nancy,  holding  out 
her  pink  petticoats,  coyly  revolved  around 
him.  Then  began  a  mysterious  turning 
and  clasping  of  hands,  and  weaving  of 
Nancy's  pink  frock  and  Evesham's  dark 
blue  coat  and  white  breeches  in  and  out  of 
the  line  of  figures,  until  they  met  at  the 
door,  and,  taking  each  other  by  both  hands, 
swept  with  a  joyous  measure  to  the  head  of 
the  barn.  Dorothy  gave  a  little  choking 
sigh. 

What  a  senseless  whirl  it  was.  She  was 
thrilling  with  a  new  and  strange  excitement, 
too  near  the  edge  of  pain  to  be  long  endured 
as  a  pleasure.  If  this  were  the  influence  of 
dancing  she  did  not  wonder  so  much  at  her 

O 

father's  scruples,  and  yet  it  held  her  like  a 
spell. 

All  hands  were  lifted  now,  making  an 
arch  through  which  Evesham,  holding  Nancy 
by  the  hands,  raced,  stooping  and  laugh 
ing.  As  they  emerged  at  the  door,  Eve- 
sham  threw  up  his  head  to  shake  a  brown 
lock  back.  He  looked  flushed  and  boyishly 


92         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN:' 

gay,  and  his  hazel  eye  searched  the  dark 
ness  with  that  subtle  ray  of  triumph  in 
it  which  made  Dorothy  afraid*  She  drew 
back  behind  the  tree  and  pressed  her  hot 
cheek  to  the  cool,  rough  bark.  She  longed 
for  the  stillness  of  the  starlit  meadow,  and 
the  dim  lane  with  its  faint  perfumes  and 
whispering  leaves. 

But  now  suddenly  the  music  stopped  and 
the  dance  broke  up  in  a  tumult  of  voices. 
Dorothy  stole  backward  in  the  shadow  of 
the  tree-trunk,  until  it  joined  the  darkness 
of  the  meadow,  and  then  fled,  stumbling 
along  with  blinded  eyes,  the  music  still  vi 
brating  in  her  ears.  Then  came  a  quick 
rush  of  footsteps  behind  her,  swishing 
through  the  long  grass.  She  did  not  look 
back,  but  quickened  her  pace,  struggling  to 
reach  the  gate.  Evesham  was  there  before 
her.  He  had  swung  the  gate  to  and  was 
leaning  with  his  back  against  it,  laughing 
and  panting. 

"I've  caught  you,  Dorothy,  you  little 
deceiver!  You  '11  not  get  rid  of  me  to-night 
with  any  of  your  tricks.  I  'm  going  to  take 
you  home  to  your  mother  and  tell  her  you 
were  peeping  at  the  dancing." 

"  Mother  knows  that  I  came ;  I  asked  her, " 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN."         93 

said  Dorothy.  Her  knees  were  trembling 
and  her  heart  almost  choked  her  with  its 
throbbing. 

"I  'm  so  glad  you  don't  dance,  Dorothy. 
This  is  much  nicer  than  the  barn,  and  the 
katydids  are  better  fiddlers  than  old  Darby 
and  his  son.  I  '11  open  the  gate  if  you  will 
put  your  hand  in  mine,  so  that  I  can  be  sure 
of  you,  you  little  runaway." 

"I  will  stay  here  all  night,  first,"  said 
Dorothy,  in  a  low,  quivering  voice. 

"As  you  choose.  I  shall  be  happy  as 
long  as  you  are  here." 

Dead  silence,  while  the  katydids  seemed 
to  keep  time  to  their  heart-beats;  the  fid 
dles  began  tuning  for  another  reel,  and  the 
horses,  tethered  near,  stretched  out  their 
necks  with  low,  inquiring  whinnies. 

"Dorothy,"  said  Evesham  softly,  lean 
ing  toward  her  and  trying  to  see  her  face 
in  the  darkness,  "are  you  angry  with  me? 
Don't  you  think  you  deserve  a  little  punish 
ment  for  the  trick  you  played  me  at  the 
mill-head?" 

"  It  was  all  thy  fault  for  insisting." 
Dorothy  was  too  excited  and  angry  to  cry, 
but  she  was  as  miserable  as  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  life  before.  "I  did  n't  want 


94         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN." 

thee  to  stay.  People  that  force  themselves 
where  they  are  not  wanted  must  take  what 
they  get." 

"What  did  you  say,  Dorothy?  " 

"I  say  I  didn't  want  thee  then.  I  do 
not  want  thee  now.  Thee  may  go  back  to 
thy  fiddling  and  dancing.  I  'd  rather  have 
one  of  those  dumb  brutes  for  company  to 
night  than  thee,  Walter  Evesham." 

"Very  well;  the  reel  has  begun,"  said 
Evesham.  "Fanny  Jordan  is  waiting  to 
dance  it  with  me,  or  if  she  is  n't  she  ought 
to  be.  Shall  I  open  the  gate  for  you?" 

She  passed  out  in  silence,  and  the  gate 
swung  to  with  a  heavy  jar.  She  made  good 
speed  down  the  lane  and  then  waited  out 
side  the  fence  till  her  breath  came  more 
quietly. 

"Is  that  thee,  Dorothy?"  Eachel's  voice 
called  from  the  porch.  She  'came  out  to 
meet  her  daughter  and  they  went  along  the 
walk  together.  "How  damp  thy  forehead 
is,  child.  Is  the  night  so  warm?  "  They  sat 
down  on  the  low  steps  and  Dorothy  slid  her 
arm  under  her  mother's  and  laid  her  soft 
palm  against  the  one  less  soft  by  twenty 
years  of  toil  for  others.  "Thee  's  not  been 
long,  dear;  was  it  as  much  as  thee  ex 
pected?" 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."          95 

"Mother,  it  was  dreadful!  I  never  wish 
to  hear  a  fiddle  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

Rachel  opened  the  way  for  Dorothy  to 
speak  further;  she  was  not  without  some 
mild  stirrings  of  curiosity  on  the  subject 
herself,  but  Dorothy  had  no  more  to  say. 

They  went  into  the  house  soon  after,  and 
as  they  separated  for  the  night  Dorothy 
clung  to  her  mother  with  a  little  nervous 
laugh. 

"Mother,  what  is  that  text  about 
Ephraim?" 

"Ephraim  is  joined  to  idols?"  Rachel 
suggested. 

"Yes,  Ephraim  is  joined  to  his  idols," 
said  Dorothy,  lifting  her  head.  "Let  him 
go!" 

"Let  him  alone,"  corrected  Rachel. 

"Let  him  alone!"  Dorothy  repeated. 
"That  is  better  yet." 

"What 's  thee  thinking  of,  dear?" 

"Oh,  I  'm  thinking  about  the  dance  in 
the  barn." 

"I  'm  glad  thee  looks  at  it  hi  that  light," 
said  Rachel  calmly. 

Dorothy  knelt  by  her  bed  in  the  low 
chamber  under  the  eaves,  crying  to  herself 


96         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

that  she  was  not  the  child  of  her  mother  any 
more. 

She  felt  that  she  had  lost  something,  that 
in  truth  had  never  been  hers.  It  was  but 
the  unconscious  poise  of  her  unawakened 
girlhood  which  had  been  stirred;  she  had 
mistaken  it  for  that  abiding  peace  which  is 
not  lost  or  won  in  a  day. 

Dorothy  could  no  more  stifle  the  spring 
thrills  in  her  blood  than  she  could  crush  the 
color  out  of  her  cheek  or  brush  the  ripples 
out  of  her  bright  hair,  but  she  longed  for 
the  cool  grays  and  the  still  waters.  She 
prayed  that  the  "grave  and  beautiful  dam 
sel  called  Discretion"  might  take  her  by 
the  hand  and  lead  her  to  that  "upper  cham 
ber,  whose  name  is  Peace."  She  lay  awake 
listening  to  the  music  from  the  barn,  and 
waiting  through  breathless  silences  for  it  to 
begin  again.  She  wondered  if  Fanny  Jor 
dan  had  grown  any  prettier  since  she  had 
seen  her  as  a  half -grown  girl,  and  then  she 
despised  herself  for  the  thought.  The  katy 
dids  seemed  to  beat  their  wings  upon  her 
brain,  and  all  the  noises  of  the  night,  far 
and  near,  came  to  her  strained  senses  as  if 
her  silent  chamber  were  a  whispering  gal 
lery.  The  clock  struck  twelve,  and  in  the 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."         97 

silence  that  followed  she  missed  the  music ; 
but  voices  talking  and  laughing  were  com 
ing  down  the  lane.  There  was  the  clink  of 
a  horse's  hoof  on  the  stones:  now  it  was  lost 
on  the  turf,  and  now  they  were  all  trooping 
noisily  past  the  house.  She  buried  her  head 
in  her  pillow  and  tried  to  bury  with  it  the 
consciousness  that  she  was  wondering  if 
Evesham  were  there  laughing  with  the  rest. 

Yes,  Evesham  was  there.  He  walked 
with  Farmer  Jordan,  behind  the  young  men 
and  girls,  and  discussed  with  him,  some 
what  absently,  the  war  news  and  the  prices 
of  grain. 

As  they  passed  the  dark  old  house, 
spreading  its  wide  roofs  like  a  hen  gather 
ing  her  chickens  under  her  wing,  he  became 
suddenly  silent.  A  white  curtain  flapped 
in  and  out  of  an  upper  window.  Evesham 
looked  up  and  slightly  raised  his  hat,  but 
his  instinct  failed  him  there,  —  it  was  the 
window  of  the  boys'  room. 

"Queer  kinks  them  old  Friend  preach 
ers  gits  into  their  heads  sometimes,"  said 
Farmer  Jordan,  as  they  passed  the  empty 
mill.  "Now  what  do  you  s'pose  took  Un 
cle  Tommy  Barton  off  right  on  top  of 
plan  tin',  leavin'  his  wife  'n'  critters  'n' 


98         FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN" 

child 'en  to  look  after  themselves?  Mighty 
good  preaehin'  it  ought  to  be  to  make  up 
for  such  practicin'.  Wonderful  set  ag'in 
the  war,  Uncle  Tommy  is.  He  's  a-preachin' 
up  peace  now.  But  Lord!  all  the  preaehin' 
sense  Moses  won't  keep  men  from  fightin' 
when  their  blood  's  up  and  there  's  ter'tory 
in  it." 

"It  makes  saints  of  the  women,"  said 
Evesham  shortly. 

"Wai,  yes.  Saints  in  heaven  before 
their  time,  some  of  'em.  There  's  Doro 
thy,  now.  She  '11  hoe  her  row  with  any 
saint  in  the  kingdom  or  out  of  it.  I  never 
see  a  hulsomer-lookin'  gal.  My  Luke,  he 
run  the  furrers  in  her  corn-patch  last  May. 
Said  it  made  him  sick  to  see  a  gal  like  that 
a-staggerin'  after  a  plough.  She  would  n't 
more  'n  half  let  him.  She  's  a  proud  little 
piece.  They  're  all  proud,  Quakers  is.  I 
never  could  see  no  'poorness  of  spirit,' 
come  to  git  at  'em.  And  they  're  wonder 
ful  clannish,  too.  My  Luke,  he  'd  a  notion 
he  'd  like  to  run  the  hull  concern,  Doro 
thy  'n'  all;  but  I  told  him  he  might  's  well 
p'int  off.  Them  Quaker  gals  don't  never 
marry  out  o'  meethr .  Besides,  the  farm  's 
too  poor." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."         99 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Jordan,"  said  Eve- 
sham  suddenly.  "I'm  off  across  lots." 
He  leaped  the  fence,  crashed  through  the 
alder  hedgerow,  and  disappeared  in  the 
dusky  meadow. 

Evesham  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with 
his  experiments  in  planetary  distances. 
Somewhere,  he  felt  sure,  either  in  his  orbit 
or  hers,  there  must  be  a  point  where  Doro 
thy  would  be  less  insensible  to  the  attrac 
tion  of  atoms  in  the  mass.  Thus  far  she 
had  reversed  the  laws  of  the  spheres,  and 
the  greater  had  followed  the  less.  When 
she  had  first  begun  to  hold  a  permanent 
place  in  his  thoughts  he  had  invested  her 
with  something  of  that  atmosphere  of  peace 
and  cool  passivity  which  hedges  in  the  wo 
men  of  her  faith.  It  had  been  like  a  thin, 
clear  glass,  revealing  her  loveliness,  but 
cutting  off  the  magnetic  currents.  A  young 
man  is  not  long  satisfied  with  the  mystery 
his  thoughts  have  woven  around  the  woman 
who  is  their  object.  Evesham  had  grown 
impatient;  he  had  broken  the  spell  of  her 
sweet  remoteness.  He  had  touched  her 
and  found  her  human,  deliciously,  distract- 
ingly  human,  but  with  a  streak  of  that  ob 
duracy  which  history  has  attributed  to  the 


100       FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN." 

Quakers  under  persecution.  In  vain  he 
haunted  the  mill-dam,  and  bribed  the  boys 
with  traps  and  pop-guns,  and  lingered  at 
the  well-curb  to  ask  Dorothy  for  water 
that  did  not  reach  his  thirst.  She  was 
there  in  the  flesh,  with  her  arms  aloft  bal 
ancing  the  well-sweep,  while  he  stooped 
with  his  lips  at  the  bucket;  but  in  spirit 
she  was  unapproachable.  He  felt,  with  dis 
gust  at  his  own  persistence,  that  she  even 
grudged  him  the  water.  He  grew  savage 
and  restless,  and  fretted  over  the  subtle 
changes  that  he  counted  in  Dorothy  as 
the  summer  waned.  She  was  thinner  and 
paler;  perhaps  with  the  heats  of  harvest, 
which  had  not,  indeed,  been  burdensome 
from  its  abundance.  Her  eyes  were  darker 
and  shyer,  and  her  voice  more  languid. 
Was  she  wearing  down  with  all  this  work 
and  care?  A  fierce  disgust  possessed  him 
that  this  sweet  life  should  be  cast  into  the 
breach  between  faith  and  works. 

He  did  not  see  that  Kachel  Barton  had 
changed,  too,  with  a  change  that  meant 
more,  at  her  age,  than  Dorothy's  flushings 
and  palings.  He  did  not  miss  the  mother's 
bent  form  from  the  garden,  or  the  bench  by 
the  kitchen  door  where  she  had  been  used 
to  wash  the  milk-things. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       101 

Dorothy  washed  the  milk-things  now, 
and  the  mother  spent  her  days  in  the  sunny 
east  room,  between  her  bed  and  the  easy- 
chair,  where  she  sat  and  mused  for  hours 
over  the  five  letters  that  she  had  received 
from  her  husband  in  as  many  months.  The 
boys  had,  in  a  measure,  justified  their 
father's  faith  in  them,  since  Rachel's  illness, 
and  Dorothy  was  released  from  much  of 
her  out-door  work;  but  the  silence  of  the 
kitchen,  when  she  was  there  alone  with  her 
ironing  and  dish  washing,  was  a  heavier 
burden  than  she  had  yet  known. 

Nature  sometimes  strikes  in  upon  the 
hopeless  monotony  of  life  in  remote  farm 
houses  with  one  of  her  phenomenal  moods. 
They  come  like  besoms  of  destruction,  but 
they  scatter  the  web  of  stifling  routine; 
they  fling  into  the  stiffening  pool  the  stone 
which  jars  the  atoms  into  crystal. 

The  storms,  that  had  ambushed  in  the 
lurid  August  skies  and  circled  ominously 
round  the  horizon  during  the  first  weeks  of 
September,  broke  at  last  in  an  equinoctial 
which  was  long  remembered  in  the  mill- 
house.  It  took  its  place  in  the  family  cal 
endar  of  momentous  dates  with  the  hard 
winter  of  1800,  with  the  late  frost  that  had 


102       FRIEND  BARTON'S  "CONCERN." 

coated  the  incipient  apples  with  ice  and 
frozen  the  new  potatoes  in  the  ground  in  the 
spring  of  '97,  and  with  the  year  the  typhus 
had  visited  the  valley. 

The  rain  had  been  falling  a  night  and  a 
day;  it  had  been  welcomed  with  thanksgiv 
ing,  but  it  had  worn  out  its  welcome  some 
hours  since,  and  now  the  early  darkness 
was  coming  on  without  a  lull  in  the  storm. 
Dorothy  and  the  two  older  boys  had  made 
the  rounds  of  the  farm-buildings,  seeing  all 
safe  for  the  second  night.  The  barns  and 
mill  stood  on  high  ground,  while  the  house 
occupied  the  sheltered  hollow  between. 
Little  streams  from  the  hills  were  washing 
in  turbid  currents  across  the  lower  levels; 
the  waste- weir  roared  as  in  early  spring, 
the  garden  was  inundated,  and  the  meadow 
a  shallow  pond.  The  sheep  had  been  driven 
into  the  upper  barn  floor:  the  chickens 
were  in  the  corn -bin ;  and  old  John  and  the 
cows  had  been  transferred  from  the  stable, 
that  stood  low,  to  the  weighing  floor  of 
the  mill.  A  gloomy  echoing  and  gurgling 
sounded  from  the  dark  wheel  -  chamber 
where  the  water  was  rushing  under  the 
wheel  and  jarring  it  with  its  tumult.  At 
eight  o'clock  the  woodshed  was  flooded  and 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       103 

water  began  to  creep  under  the  kitchen 
door.  Dorothy  and  the  boys  carried  arm- 
fuls  of  wood  and  stacked  them  in  the  pas 
sage  to  the  sitting-room,  two  steps  higher 
up.  At  nine  o'clock  the  boys  were  sent 
protesting  to  bed,  and  Dorothy,  looking  out 
of  their  window  as  she  fumbled  about  in 
the  dark  for  a  pair  of  Shep's  trousers  that 
needed  mending,  saw  a  lantern  flickering 
up  the  road.  It  was  Evesham  on  his  way 
to  the  mill-dams.  The  light  glimmered  on 
his  oilskin  coat  as  he  climbed  the  stile 
behind  the  well-curb. 

"He  raised  the  flood-gates  at  noon," 
Dorothy  said  to  herself.  "I  wonder  if  he 
is  anxious  about  the  dams."  She  resolved 
to  watch  for  his  return,  but  she  was  busy 
settling  her  mother  for  the  night  when  she 
heard  his  footsteps  on  the  porch.  The  roar 
of  water  from  the  hills  startled  Dorothy  as 
she  opened  the  door;  it  had  increased  in 
violence  within  an  hour.  A  gust  of  wind 
and  rain  followed  Evesham  into  the  entry. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  running  lightly 
across  the  sitting-room  to  close  the  door  of 
her  mother's  room. 

He  stood  opposite  her  on  the  hearth-rug 
and  looked  into  her  eyes,  across  the  es- 


104       FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

trangement  of  the  summer.  It  was  not 
Dorothy  of  the  mill-head,  or  of  Slocum's 
meadow,  or  the  cold  maid  of  the  well;  it 
was  a  very  anxious,  lonely  little  girl  in  a 
crumbling  old  house,  with  a  foot  of  water 
in  the  cellar  and  a  sick  mother  in  the  next 
room.  She  had  forgotten  about  Ephraim 
and  his  idols;  she  picked  up  Shep's  trou 
sers  from  the  rug,  where  she  had  dropped 
them,  and,  looking  intently  at  her  thimble 
finger,  told  him  she  was  very  glad  that  he 
had  come. 

"Did  you  think  I  would  not  come?"  said 
he.  "I'm  going  to  take  you  home  with 
me,  Dorothy,  —  you  and  your  mother  and 
the  boys.  It 's  not  fit  for  you  to  be  here 
alone." 

"Does  thee  know  of  any  danger?" 

"I  know  of  none,  but  water's  a  thing 
you  can't  depend  on.  It's  an  ugly  rain; 
older  men  than  your  father  remember  no 
thing  like  it." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  mother  go,  and 
Jimmy;  the  house  is  very  damp.  It's  an 
awful  night  for  her  to  be  out,  though." 

"She  must  go!"  said  Evesham.  "You 
must  all  go.  I  '11  be  back  in  half  an 
hour"  — 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       105 

"7  shall  not  go,"  Dorothy  said;  "the 
boys  and  I  must  stay  and  look  after  the 
stock." 

"What's  that?"  Evesham  was  listen 
ing  to  a  trickling  of  water  outside  the  door. 

"Oh!  it's  from  the  kitchen.  The  door 
has  blown  open,  I  guess." 

Dorothy  looked  out  into  the  passage; 
a  strong  wind  was  blowing  in  from  the 
kitchen,  where  the  water  covered  the  floor 
and  washed  against  the  chimney. 

"This  is  a  nice  state  of  things!  What 's 
all  this  wood  here  for?" 

"The  woodshed  's  under  water." 

"  You  must  get  yourself  ready,  Dorothy. 
I  '11  come  for  your  mother  first  in  the 
chaise." 

"  I  cannot  go, "  she  said.  "  I  don't  believe 
there  is  any  danger.  This  old  house  has 
stood  for  eighty  years;  it's  not  likely  this 
is  the  first  big  rain  in  all  that  time."  Dor 
othy's  spirits  had  risen.  "Besides,  I  have 
a  family  of  orphans  to  take  care  of.  See 
here,"  she  said,  stooping  over  a  basket  in 
the  shadow  of  the  chimney.  It  was  the 
"hospital  tent,"  and  as  she  uncovered  it, 
a  brood  of  belated  chickens  stretched  out 
their  thin  necks  with  plaintive  peeps. 


106      FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN." 

Dorothy  covered  them  with  her  hands 
and  they  nestled  with  comfortable  twitter 
ings  into  silence. 

"You  're  a  kind  of  special  providence, 
aren't  you,  Dorothy?  But  I've  no  sym 
pathy  with  chickens  who  will  be  born  just 
in  time  for  the  equinoctial." 

"/  didn't  want  them,"  said  Dorothy, 
anxious  to  defend  her  management.  "The 
old  hen  stole  her  nest  and  she  left  them  the 
day  before  the  rain.  She  's  making  herself 
comfortable  now  in  the  corn-bin." 

"She  ought  to  be  made  an  example  of; 
that 's  the  way  of  the  world,  however,  - 
retribution  does  n't  fall  always  on  the  right 
shoulders.  I  must  go  now.  We  '11  take 
your  mother  and  Jimmy  first,  and  then,  if 
you  won't  come,  you  shall  let  me  stay  with 
you.  The  mill  is  safe  enough,  anyhow." 

Evesham  returned  with  the  chaise  and  a 
man,  who,  he  insisted,  should  drive  away 
old  John  and  the  cows,  so  that  Dorothy 
should  have  less  care.  The  mother  was 
packed  into  the  chaise  with  a  vast  collection 
of  wraps,  which  almost  obliterated  Jimmy. 
As  they  started,  Dorothy  ran  out  in  the 
rain  with  her  mother's  spectacles  and  the 
five  letters,  which  always  lay  in  a  box  on 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN."       107 

the  table  by  her  bed.  Evesham  took  her 
gently  by  the  arms  and  lifted  her  back 
across  the  puddles  to  the  stoop. 

As  the  chaise  drove  off,  she  went  back 
into  the  sitting-room  and  crouched  on  the 
rug,  her  wet  hair  shining  in  the  firelight. 
She  took  out  her  chickens  one  by  one  and 
held  them  under  her  chin,  with  tender 
words  and  finger  -  touches.  If  September 
chickens  have  feelings  as  susceptible  as 
their  bodies,  Dorothy's  orphans  must  have 
been  imperiled  by  her  caresses. 

"Look  here,  Dorothy!  Where  's  my 
trousers?"  cried  Shep,  opening  the  door  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

Reuby  was  behind  him,  fully  arrayed  in 
his  own  garment  aforesaid,  and  carrying  the 
bedroom  candle. 

"Here  they  are  —  with  a  needle  in 
them,"  said  Dorothy.  "What  are  you  get 
ting  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  for?  " 

"Well,  I  guess  it 's  time  somebody  's  up. 
Who  's  that  man  driving  off  our  cows?" 

"Goosey!  It's  Walter  Evesham's  man. 
He  came  for  mother  and  all  of  us,  and  he  's 
taken  old  John  and  the  cows  to  save  us  so 
much  foddering." 

"Ain't  we  going  too?" 


108       FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

"I  don't  see  why  we  should,  just  because 
there  happens  to  be  a  little  water  in  the 
kitchen.  I  've  often  seen  it  come  in  there 
before." 

"Well,  thee  never  saw  anything  like  this 
before  —  nor  anybody  else,  either,"  said 
Shep. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Reuby,  "I  wish 
there  'd  come  a  reg'lar  flood.  We  could 
climb  up  in  the  mill-loft  and  go  sailin' 
down  over  Jordan's  meadows.  Wouldn't 
Luke  Jordan  open  that  big  mouth  of  his 
to  see  us  heave  in  sight  about  cock-crow, 
wing  and  wing,  and  the  old  tackle  a-swing- 
in' !  " 

"Do  hush!"  said  Dorothy.  "We  may 
have  to  try  it  yet." 

"There  's  an  awful  roarin'  from  our  win 
dow,"  said  Shep.  "Thee  can't  half  hear  it 
down  here.  Come  out  on  the  stoop.  The 
old  ponds  have  got  their  dander  up  this 
time." 

They  opened  the  door  and  listened,  stand 
ing  together  on  the  low  step.  There  was, 
indeed,  a  hoarse  murmur  from  the  hills, 
which  grew  louder  as  they  listened. 

"Now  she's  comin'!  There  goes  the 
stable-door.  There  was  only  one  hinge  left, 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       109 

anyway,"  said  Reuby.  "Mighty!  Look  at 
that  wave! " 

It  crashed  through  the  gate,  swept  across 
the  garden  and  broke  at  their  feef,  sending  a 
thin  sheet  of  water  over  the  floor  of  the  porch. 

"Now  it  's  gone  into  the  entry.  Why 
didn't  thee  shut  the  door,  Shep?" 

"Well,  I  think  we'd  better  clear  out, 
anyhow.  Let  's  go  over  to  the  mill.  Say, 
Dorothy,  shan't  we?" 

"Wait.     There  comes  another  wave." 

The  second  onset  was  not  so  violent;  but 
they  hastened  to  gather  together  a  few 
blankets,  and  the  boys  filled  their  pockets 
with  cookies,  with  a  delightful  sense  of  un- 
usualness  and  peril  almost  equal  to  a  ship 
wreck  or  an  attack  by  Indians.  Dorothy 
took  her  unlucky  chickens  under  her  cloak, 
and  they  made  a  rush  all  together  across 
the  road  and  up  the  slope  to  the  mill. 

"Why  didn't  we  think  to  bring  a  lan 
tern?"  said  Dorothy,  as  they  huddled  to 
gether  on  the  platform  of  the  scale.  "Will 
thee  go  back  after  one,  Shep? " 

"If  Reuby'llgo,  too." 

"Well,  my  legs  are  wet  enough  now. 
What  's  the  use  of  a  lantern?  Mighty 
Moses!  What's  that?" 


110      FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

"The  old  mill's  got  under  way,"  cried 
Shep.  "  /She  's  going  to  tune  up  for  King 
dom  Come." 

A  furious  head  of  water  was  rushing 
along  the  race ;  the  great  wheel  creaked  and 
swung  over,  and  with  a  shudder  the  old 
mill  awoke  from  its  long  sleep.  The  cogs 
clenched  their  teeth,  the  shafting  shook  and 
rattled,  the  stones  whirled  merrily  round. 

"Now  she  goes  it!"  cried  Shep,  as  the 
humming  increased  to  a  tremor,  and  the 
tremor  to  a  wild,  unsteady  din,  till  the  tim 
bers  shook  and  the  bolts  and  windows  rat 
tled.  "I  just  wish  father  could  hear  them 
old  stones  hum." 

"Oh,  this  is  awful!  "  said  Dorothy.  She 
was  shivering  and  sick  with  terror  at  this 
unseemly  midnight  revelry  of  her  grand 
father's  old  mill.  It  was  as  if  it  had  awak 
ened  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  and  given  itself 
up  to  a  wild  travesty  of  its  years  of  peace 
ful  work. 

Shep  was  creeping  about  in  the  darkness. 

"Look  here!  We  've  got  to  stop  this 
clatter  somehow.  The  stones  are  hot  now. 
The  whole  thing '11  burn  up  like  tinder  if 
we  can't  chock  her  wheels." 

"  Shep !     Does  thee  mean  it  ?  " 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       Ill 

"Thee  '11  see  if  I  don't.  Thee  won't 
need  any  lantern  either." 

"Can't  we  break  away  the  race?  " 

"Oh,  there  's  a  way  to  stop  it.  There  's 
the  tip-trough,  but  it 's  downstairs  and  we 
can't  reach  the  pole." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Dorothy. 

"It's  outside,  thee  knows.  Thee '11  get 
awful  wet,  Dorothy." 

"  Well,  I  'd  just  as  soon  be  drowned  as 
burned  up.  Come  with  me  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs." 

They  felt  their  way  hand  in  hand  in  the 
darkness,  and  Dorothy  went  down  alone. 
She  had  forgotten  about  the  "tip-trough," 
but  she  understood  its  significance.  In  a 
few  moments  a  cascade  shot  out  over  the 
wheel,  sending  the  water  far  into  the  gar 
den. 

"Right  over  my  chrysanthemum  bed," 
sighed  Dorothy. 

The  wheel  swung  slower  and  slower,  the 
mocking  tumult  subsided,  and  the  old  mill 
sank  into  sleep  again. 

There  was  nothing  now  to  drown  the  roar 
ing  of  the  floods  and  the  steady  drive  of  the 
storm. 

"There's  a  lantern,"   Shep  called  from 


112       FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN." 

the  door.  He  had  opened  the  upper  half 
and  was  shielding  himself  behind  it.  "I 
guess  it 's  Evesham  coming  back  for  us. 
He  's  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  fellow  after 
all;  don't  thee  think  so,  Dorothy?  He 
owes  us  something  for  drowning  us  out  at 
the  sheep-washing." 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  said  Doro 
thy,  as  Evesham  swung  himself  over  the 
half-door  and  his  lantern  showed  them  to 
each  other  in  their  various  phases  of  wet 
ness. 

"There  's  a  big  leak  in  the  lower  dam; 
I've  been  afraid  of  it  all  along;  there's 
something  wrong  in  the  principle  of  the 
thing." 

Dorothy  felt  as  if  he  had  called  her 
grandfather  a  fraud,  and  her  father  a  delu 
sion  and  a  snare.  She  had  grown  up  in  the 
belief  that  the  mill-dams  were  part  of  Na 
ture's  original  plan  in  laying  the  founda 
tions  of  the  hills ;  but  it  was  no  time  to  be 
resentful,  and  the  facts  were  against  her. 

"Dorotlry,"  said  Evesham,  as  he  tucked 
the  buffalo  about  her,  "this  is  the  second 
time  I  've  tried  to  save  you  from  drowning, 
but  you  never  will  wait.  I  'm  all  ready  to 
be  a  hero,  but  you  won't  be  a  heroine." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  "  CONCERN."        113 

"I'm  too  practical  for  a  heroine,"  said 
Dorothy.  "There!  I  've  forgotten  my 
chickens." 

"I  'm  glad  of  it.  Those  chickens  were  a 
mistake.  They  ought  n't  to  be  perpetu 
ated." 

Youth  and  happiness  can  stand  a  great 
deal  of  cold  water;  but  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  Rachel  Barton  would  be  es 
pecially  benefited  by  her  night  journey 
through  the  floods.  Evesham  waited  in  the 
hall  when  he  heard  the  door  of  her  room 
open  next  morning.  Dorothy  came  slowly 
down  the  stairs;  he  knew  by  her  lingering- 
step  and  the  softly  closed  door  that  she  was 
not  happy. 

"Mother  is  very  sick,"  she  answered  his 
inquiry.  "  It  is  like  the  turn  of  inflamma 
tion  and  rheumatism  she  had  once  before. 
It  will  be  very  slow,  —  and  oh,  it  is  such 
suffering!  Why  do  the  best  women  in  the 
world  have  to  suffer  so?  " 

"Will  you  let  me  talk  things  over  with 
you  after  breakfast,  Dorothy?  " 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  "there  is  so  much 
to  do  and  think  about.  I  wish  father 
would  come  home! " 

The  tears  came  into  Dorothy's  eyes  as 


114       FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN." 

she  looked  at  him.  Kest,  such  as  she  had 
never  known  or  felt  the  need  of  till  now, 
and  strength  immeasurable,  since  it  would 
multiply  her  own  by  an  unknown  quantity, 
stood  within  reach  of  her  hand,  but  she 
might  not  put  it  out. 

Evesham  was  dizzy  with  the  struggle 
between  longing  and  resolution.  He  had 
braced  his  nerves  for  a  long  and  hungry 
waiting,  but  fate  had  yielded  suddenly ;  the 
floods  had  brought  her  to  him,  —  his  flot 
sam  and  jetsam  more  precious  than  all  the 
guarded  treasures  of  the/  earth.  She  had 
come,  with  all  her  girlish,  unconscious  be- 
guilements,  and  all  her  womanly  cares  and 
anxieties  too.  He  must  strive  against  her 
sweetness,  while  he  helped  her  to  bear  her 
burdens. 

"Now  about  the  boys,  Dorothy,"  he  said, 
two  hours  later,  as  they  stood  together  by 
the  fire  in  the  low,  oak  -  finished  room, 
which  was  his  office  and  book-room.  The 
door  was  ajar  so  that  Dorothy  might  hear 
her  mother's  bell.  "Don't  you  think  they 
had  better  be  sent  to  school  somewhere?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Dorothy,  "they  ought  to  go 
to  school,  — but  —  well,  I  may  as  well  tell 
thee  the  truth.  There  's  very  little  to  do 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN."       115 

it  with.  We  've  had  a  poor  summer.  I 
suppose  I  've  managed  badly,  and  mother 
has  been  sick  a  good  while." 

"You've  forgotten  about  the  pond-rent, 
Dorothy." 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  flush,  "I 
had  n't  forgotten  it,  but  I  could  n't  ask 
thee  for  it." 

"I  spoke  to  your  father  about  monthly 
payments,  but  he  said  better  leave  it  to 
accumulate  for  emergencies.  Should  n't 
you  call  this  an  'emergency,'  Dorothy?" 

"But  does  thee  think  we  ought  to  ask 
rent  for  a  pond  that  has  all  leaked  away?" 

"Oh,  there  's  pond  enough  left,  and  I  've 
used  it  a  dozen  times  over  this  summer.  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  tell  you,  Dorothy, 
how  my  horn  has  been  exalted  in  your 
father's  absence.  However,  retribution  has 
overtaken  me  at  last;  I  'm  responsible,  you 
know,  for  all  the  damage  last  night.  It 
was  in  the  agreement  that  I  should  keep  up 
the  dams." 

"Oh!  "  said  Dorothy;   "is  thee  sure?" 

Evesham  laughed. 

"If  your  father  was  like  any  other  man, 
Dorothy,  he'd  make  me  'sure,'  when  he 
gets  home.  I  will  defend  myself  to  this 


116       FRIEND  BARTON'S  "  CONCERN." 

extent;  I  've  patched  and  propped  them  all 
summer,  after  every  rain,  and  tried  to  pro 
vide  for  the  fall  storms;  but  there  's  a  flaw 
in  the  original  plan  " 

"Thee  said  that  once  before,"  said  Doro 
thy.  "I  wish  thee  wouldn't  say  it  again." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  love  those  old  mill-dams. 
I  've  trotted  over  them  ever  since  I  could 
walk  alone." 

"You  shall  trot  over  them  still.  We  will 
make  them  as  strong  as  the  everlasting 
hills.  They  shall  outlast  our  time,  Doro 
thy." 

"Well,  about  the  rent,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  I  'm  afraid  it  will  not  take  us  through  the 
winter,  unless  there  is  something  I  can  do. 
Mother  couldn't  possibly  be  moved  now; 
and  if  she  could,  it  will  be  months  before 
the  house  is  fit  to  live  in.  But  we  cannot 
stay  here  in  comfort,  unless  thy  mother  will 
let  me  make  up  in  some  way.  Mother  will 
not  need  me  all  the  time,  and  I  know  thy 
mother  hires  women  to  spin." 

"She  '11  let  you  do  all  you  like  if  it  will 
make  you  any  happier.  But  you  don't 
know  how  much  money  is  coming  to  you. 
Come,  let  us  look  over  the  figures." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN."       117 

He  lowered  the  lid  of  the  black  mahog 
any  secretary,  placed  a  chair  for  Dorothy 
and  opened  a  great  ledger  before  her,  bend 
ing  down,  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of 
the  chair,  the  other  turning  the  leaves  of 
the  ledger.  Considering  the  index  and  the 
position  of  the  letter  B  in  the  alphabet,  he 
was  a  long  time  finding  his  place.  Doro 
thy  looked  out  of  the  window  over  the  tops 
of  the  yellowing  woods  to  the  gray  and  tur 
bid  river  below.  Where  the  hemlocks  dark 
ened  the  channel  of  the  glen  she  heard  the 
angry  floods  rushing  down.  The  formless 
rain  mists  hung  low  and  hid  the  opposite 
shore. 

"See! "  said  Evesham,  his  finger  wander 
ing  rather  vaguely  down  the  page.  "Your 
father  went  away  on  the  3d  of  May.  The 
first  month's  rent  came  due  on  the  3d  of 
June.  That  was  the  day  I  opened  the  gate 
and  let  the  water  down  on  you,  Dorothy. 
I  'm  responsible  for  everything,  you  see,  — 
even  for  the  old  ewe  that  was  drowned." 

His  words  came  in  a  dream  as  he  bent 
over  her,  resting  his  unsteady  hand  heavily 
on  the  ledger. 

Dorothy  laid  her  cheek  on  the  date  that 
she  could  not  see  and  burst  into  tears. 


118       FRIEND  BARTON'S  "  CONCERN." 

"  Don't,  -  -  please  don't  !  "  he  said, 
straightening  himself  and  locking  his 
hands  behind  him.  "I  am  human,  Doro 
thy." 

The  weeks  of  Rachel's  sickness  that  fol 
lowed  were  perhaps  the  best  discipline  Eve- 
sham's  life  had  ever  known.  He  held  the 
perfect  flower  of  his  bliss  unclosing  in  his 
hand;  yet  he  might  barely  permit  him 
self  to  breathe  its  fragrance.  His  mother 
had  been  a  strong  and  prosperous  woman ; 
there  had  been  little  he  had  ever  been  able 
to  do  for  her.  It  was  well  for  him  to  feel 
the  weight  of  helpless  infirmity  in  his  arms 
as  he  lifted  Dorothy's  mother  from  side 
to  side  of  her  bed,  while  Dorothy's  hands 
smoothed  the  coverings.  It  was  well  for 
him  to  see  the  patient  endurance  of  suffer 
ing,  such  as  his  youth  and  strength  defied. 
It  was  bliss  to  wait  on  Dorothy  and  follow 
her  with  little  watchful  homages,  received 
with  a  shy  wonder  which  was  delicious  to 
him;  for  Dorothy's  nineteen  years  had 
been  too  full  of  service  to  others  to  leave 
much  room  for  dreams  of  a  kingdom  of  her 
own.  Her  silent  presence  in  her  mother's 
sick-room  awed  him.  Her  gentle,  decisive 
voice  and  ways,  her  composure  and  un- 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       119 

shaken  endurance  through  nights  of  watch 
ing  and  days  of  anxious  confinement  and 
toil,  gave  him  a  new  reverence  for  the 
powers  and  mysteries  of  her  unfathomable 
womanhood. 

The  time  of  Friend  Barton's  return  drew 
near.  It  must  be  confessed  that  Dorothy 
welcomed  it  with  something  of  dread,  and 
that  Evesham  did  not  welcome  it  at  all. 
On  the  contrary,  the  thought  of  it  roused 
all  his  latent  obstinacy  and  aggressiveness. 
The  first  day  or  two  after  the  momentous 
arrival  wore  a  good  deal  upon  every  mem 
ber  of  the  family,  except  Margaret  Eve- 
sham,  who  was  provided  with  a  philosophy 
of  her  own,  that  amounted  almost  to  a  gen 
tle  obtusencss  and  made  her  a  comforta 
ble  non-conductor,  preventing  more  electric 
souls  from  shocking  each  other. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  Doro 
thy  came  out  of  her  mother's  room  with  a 
tray  of  empty  dishes  in  her  hands.  She 
saw  Evesham  at  the  stair-head  and  hovered 
about  in  the  shadowy  part  of  the  hall  till  he 
should  go  down. 

" Dorothy,"  he  said,  "I'm  waiting  for 
you."  He  took  the  tray  from  her  and 
rested  it  on  the  banisters.  "Your  father 


120       FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

and  I  have  talked  over  all  the  business. 
He  's  got  the  impression  that  I  'm  one  of 
the  most  generous  fellows  in  the  world.  I 
intend  to  leave  him  in  that  delusion  for 
the  present.  Now  may  I  speak  to  him 
about  something  else,  Dorothy?  Have  I 
not  waited  long  enough  for  my  heart's  de 
sire?" 

"  Take    care,"    said   Dorothy   softly,  - 
"thee  '11  upset  the  tea-cups." 

"Confound  the  tea-cups!"  He  stooped 
to  place  the  irrelevant  tray  on  the  floor,  but 
now  Dorothy  was  halfway  down  the  stair 
case.  He  caught  her  on  the  landing,  and 
taking  both  her  hands  drew  her  down  on 
the  step  beside  him. 

"Dorothy,  this  is  the  second  time  you  've 
taken  advantage  of  my  trusting  nature. 
This  time  you  shall  be  punished.  You 
needn't  try  to  hide  your  face,  you  little 
traitor.  There  's  no  repentance  in  you!  " 

"If  I  'm  to  be  punished  there  's  no  need 
of  repentance." 

"Oh,  is  that  your  Quaker  doctrine?  Dor 
othy,  do  you  know,  I  've  never  heard  you 
speak  my  name,  except  once,  and  then  you 
were  angry  with  me." 

"When  was  that?" 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       121 

"The  night  I  caught  you  at  the  gate. 
You  said,  'I  had  rather  have  one  of  those 
dumb  brutes  for  company  than  thee,  Wal 
ter  Evesham.'  You  said  it  in  the  fiercest 
little  voice.  Even  the  'thee  '  sounded  as  if 
you  hated  me." 

"I  did,"  said  Dorothy  promptly.  "I 
had  reason  to." 

"Do  you  hate  me  now,  Dorothy?" 

"Not  so  much  as  I  did  then." 

"What  an  implacable  little  Quaker  you 
are." 

"A  tyrant  is  always  hated,"  said  Doro 
thy,  trying  to  release  her  hands. 

"If  you  will  look  in  my  eyes,  Dorothy, 
and  call  me  by  my  name,  just  once,  I  '11 
let 'thee'  go." 

"Walter  Evesham,"  said  Dorothy,  with 
great  firmness  and  decision. 

"No,  that  won't  do!  You  must  look  at 
me,  and  say  it  softly,  in  a  little  sentence, 
Dorothy." 

"  Will  thee  please  let  me  go,  Walter?  " 

Walter  Evesham  was  a  man  of  his  word, 
but  as  Dorothy  sped  away,  he  looked  as  if 
he  wished  that  he  was  not. 

The  next  evening  Friend  Barton  sat  by 
his  wife's  easy-chair  drawn  into  the  circle 


122      FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

of  firelight,  with  his  elbows  on   his   knees 
and  his  head  between  his  hands. 

The  worn  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head  had 
widened  considerably  during  the  summer, 
but  Kachel  looked  stronger  and  brighter 
than  she  had  done  for  many  a  day.  There 
was  even  a  little  flush  on  her  cheek,  but  this 
might  have  come  from  the  excitement  of  a 
long  talk  with  her  husband. 

"I  'm  sorry  thee  takes  it  so  hard,  Thomas. 
I  was  afraid  thee  would.  But  the  way 
did  n't  seem  to  open  for  me  to  do  much. 
I  can  see  now  that  Dorothy's  inclinations 
have  been  turning  this  way  for  some  time ; 
though  it  's  not  likely  she  would  own  it, 
poor  child;  and  Walter  Evesham  's  not  one 
who  is  easily  gainsaid.  If  thee  could  only 
feel  differently  about  it,  I  can't  say  but  that 
it  would  make  me  very  happy  to  see  Doro 
thy's  heart  satisfied.  Can't  thee  bring  thy 
self  into  unity  with  it,  father?  He  's  a  nice 
young  man.  They  're  nice  folks.  Thee 
can't  complain  of  the  blood.  Margaret 
Evesham  tells  me  a  cousin  of  hers  married 
one  of  the  Lawrences,  so  we  are  kind  of 
kin  after  all." 

"I  don't  complain  of  the  blood;  they're 
well  enough  placed,  as  far  as  the  world  is 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN."       123 

concerned.  But  their  ways  are  not  our 
ways,  Rachel;  their  faith  is  not  our  faith." 

"Well,  I  can't  see  such  a  very  great 
difference,  come  to  live  among  them.  'By 
their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them.'  To  com 
fort  the  widow  and  the  fatherless,  and 
keep  ourselves  unspotted  from  the  world;  — 
thee  's  always  preached  that,  father.  I 
really  can't  see  any  more  worldliness  here 
than  among  many  households  with  us ;  and 
I  'm  sure  if  wre  have  n't  been  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless  this  summer,  we  've  been 
next  to  it." 

Friend  Barton  raised  his  head:  "Rachel," 
he  said,  "look  at  that!"  He  pointed  up 
ward  to  an  ancient  sword  with  belt  and 
trappings  which  gleamed  on  the  paneled 
chimney-piece,  crossed  by  an  old  queen's- 
arm.  Evesham  had  given  up  his  large, 
sunny  room  to  Dorothy's  mother,  but  he 
had  not  removed  all  his  lares  and  penates. 

"Yes,  dear;  that's  his  grandfather's 
sword  —  Colonel  Evesham,  who  was  killed 
at  Saratoga." 

"Why  does  he  hang  up  that  thing  of 
abomination  for  a  light  and  a  guide  to 
his  footsteps,  if  his  way  be  not  far  from 
ours?" 


124       FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  CONCERN." 

"Why,  father!  Colonel  Evesham  was  a 
good  man.  I  dare  say  he  fought  for  the 
same  reason  that  thee  preaches,  because  he 
felt  it  to  be  his  duty." 

"I  find  no  fault  with  him,  Rachel. 
Doubtless  he  followed  his  light,  as  thee 
says,  but  he  followed  it  in  better  ways  too. 
He  cleared  land  and  built  a  homestead  and 
a  meeting-house.  Why  does  n't  his  grand 
son  hang  up  his  old  broadaxe  and  plowshare 
and  worship  them,  if  he  must  have  idols, 
instead  of  that  symbol  of  strife  and  blood 
shed.  Does  thee  want  our  Dorothy's  chil 
dren  to  grow  up  under  the  shadow  of  the 
sword?" 

There  was  a  stern  light  of  prophecy  in 
the  old  man's  eyes. 

"May  be  Walter  Evesham  would  take 
it  down,"  said  Rachel  simply,  leaning  back 
and  closing  her  eyes.  "I  never  was  much 
of  a  hand  to  argue,  even  if  I  had  the 
strength  for  it;  but  it  would  hurt  me  a 
good  deal  —  I  must  say  it  —  if  thee  should 
deny  Dorothy  in  this  matter,  Thomas.  It 's 
a  very  serious  thing  for  old  folks  to  try  to 
turn  young  hearts  the  way  they  think  they 
ought  to  go.  I  remember  now,  —  I  was 
thinking  about  it  last  night,  and  it  all  came 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   "CONCERN."       125 

back  as  fresh  —  I  don't  know  that  I  ever 
told  thee  about  that  young  Friend  who  vis 
ited  me  before  I  heard  thee  preach  at  Stony 
Valley?  Well,  father,  he  was  wonderful 
pleased  with  him,  but  I  didn't  feel  any 
drawing  that  way.  He  urged  me  a  good 
deal,  more  than  was  pleasant  for  either  of 
us.  He  was  n't  at  all  reconciled  to  thee, 
Thomas,  if  thee  remembers." 

"I  remember,"  said  Thomas  Barton.  "It 
was  an  anxious  time." 

"Well,  dear,  if  father  had  insisted  and 
had  sent  thee  away,  I  can't  say  but  life 
would  have  been  a  very  different  thing  to 
me." 

"I  thank  thee  for  saying  it,  Rachel." 
Friend  Barton's  head  drooped.  "Thee  has 
suffered  much  through  me;  thee 's  had  a 
hard  life,  but  thee  's  been  well  beloved." 

The  flames  leaped  and  flickered  in  the 
chimney;  they  touched  the  wrinkled  hands 
whose  only  beauty  was  in  their  deeds ;  they 
crossed  the  room  and  lit  the  pillows  where, 
for  three  generations,  young  heads  had 
dreamed  and  gray  heads  had  watched  and 
wearied ;  then  they  mounted  to  the  chimney 
and  struck  a  gleam  from  the  sword. 

"Well,    father,"    said     Rachel,     "what 


126      FRIEND  BARTON'S   "  C ONCERN. " 

answer  is  thee  going  to  give  Walter  Eve- 
sham?" 

"  I  shall  say  no  more,  my  dear.  Let  the 
young  folks  have  their  way.  There  's  strife 
and  contention  enough  in  the  world  without 
my  stirring  up  more.  And  it  may  be  I  'm 
resisting  the  Master's  will.  I  left  her  in 
his  care;  this  may  be  his  way  of  dealing 
with  her." 

Walter  Evesham  did  not  take  down  his 
grandfather's  sword.  Fifty  years  later  an 
other  went  up  beside  it,  the  sword  of  a 
young  Evesham  who  never  left  the  field  of 
Shiloh;  and  beneath  them  both  hangs  the 
portrait  of  the  Quaker  grandmother,  Doro 
thy  Evesham,  at  the  age  of  sixty-nine. 

The  golden  ripples,  silver  now,  are  hid 
den  under  a  "round-eared  cap; "  the  quick 
flush  has  faded  in  her  cheek,  and  fold  upon 
fold  of  snowy  gauze  and  creamy  silk  are 
crossed  over  the  bosom  that  once  thrilled  to 
the  fiddles  of  Slocum's  barn.  She  has  found 
the  cool  grays  and  the  still  waters ;  but  on 
Dorothy's  children  rests  the  "Shadow  of 
the  Sword." 


THE   STORY    OF   THE   ALCAZAR. 

IT  was  told  by  Captain  John  to  a  boy 
from  the  mainland  who  was  spending  the 
summer  on  the  Island,  as  they  sat  together 
one  August  evening  at  sunset,  on  a  broken 
bowsprit  which  had  once  been  a  part  of  the 
Alcazar. 

It  was  dead  low  water  in  Southwest 
Harbor,  a  land-locked  inlet  that  nearly 
cut  the  Island  in  two,  and  was  the  gateway 
through  which  the  fishing-craft  from  the 
village  at  the  harbor  head  found  their  way 
out  into  the  great  Penobscot  Bay.  There 
were  many  days  during  the  stern  winter 
and  bleak  spring  months  when  the  gate  was 
blocked  with  ice  or  veiled  in  fog,  but  nature 
relented  a  little  toward  the  Island  folk  in 
the  fall  and  sent  them  sunny  days  for  their 
late,  scant  harvesting,  and  steady  winds  for 
the  mackerel-fishing,  to  give  them  a  little 
hope  before  the  winter  set  in  sharp  with 
the  equinoctial.  Now,  at  low  tide,  the 
bright  gateway  shone  wide  open,  as  if  to  let 


128    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

out  the  waters  that  rise  and  fall  ten  feet 
in  the  inlet.  You  could  look  far  out,  be 
yond  the  lighthouse  on  Creenlaw's  Neck 
and  the  islands  that  throng  the  mouth  of 
the  harbor,  to  the  red  spot  of  flame  the  sun 
set  had  kindled  below  the  rack  of  smoke- 
gray  clouds.  The  color  burned  in  a  dull 
gleam  upon  the  water,  broken  by  the  dark 
shapes  of  shadowy  islands ;  the  sail -boats  at 
anchor  in  the  muddy,  glistening  flats  leaned 
over  disconsolately  on  their  sides,  in  despair 
of  ever  again  feeling  the  thrill  of  the  re 
turning  waters  beneath  their  keels ;  and  the 
gray,  weather-beaten  houses  crowded  to 
gether  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  above  the 
beach,  looking  like  a  group  of  hooded  old 
women  watching  for  a  belated  sail,  seemed 
to  have  caught  the  expression  of  their  in 
mates'  lives.  At  high  tide  the  hulk  of  the 
Alcazar  had  been  full  of  water,  which  was 
now  pouring  out  through  a  hole  in  the 
planking  of  her  side  in  a  continuous,  mur 
murous  stream,  like  the  voice  of  a  persist 
ent  talker  in  a  silent  company.  The  old 
ship  looked  much  too  big  for  her  narrow 
grave  at  the  foot  of  the  green  cliff,  in  which 
her  anchor  was  deeply  sunk  and  half  over 
grown  with  thistles.  Her  blunt  bow  and  the 


THE  STORY   OF  THE  ALCAZAR.        129 

ragged  stump  of  the  figure-head  rose,  dark 
and  high,  above  the  wet  beach  where  Cap 
tain  John  sat  with  his  absorbed  listener. 
There  were  rifts  about  her  rail  where  the 
red  sunset  looked  through.  Her  naked 
sides,  that  for  years  had  been  moistened 
only  by  the  perennial  rains  and  snows, 
showed  rough  and  scaly  like  the  armor  of 
some  fabled  sea-monster.  She  was  tethered 
to  the  cliff  by  her  rusty  anchor-chain  that 
swung  across  the  space  between,  serving  as 
a  clothes-line  for  the  draggled  driftweed 
left  by  the  receding  tide  to  dry. 

"She  was  a  big  ship  for  these  parts," 
Captain  John  was  saying.  "There  wan't 
one  like  her  ever  come  into  these  waters  be 
fore.  Lord!  folks  come  down  from  the 
Neck,  and  from  Green's  Landin',  and  Nor'- 
east  Harbor,  and  I  don't  know  but  they 
come  from  the  main,  to  see  her  when  she 
was  fust  towed  in.  And  such  work  as  they 
made  of  her  name!  Some  called  it  one 
way  and  some  another.  It 's  a  kind  of  a 
Cubian  name,  they  say.  I  expect  there 
ain't  anybody  round  here  that  can  call  it 
right.  However  't  was,  old  Cap'n  Green 
took  and  pried  it  off  her  starboard  quarter, 
and  somebody  got  hold  of  it  and  nailed  it 


130    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

up  over  the  blacksmith's  shop;  and  there 
you  can  see  it  now.  The  old  cap'n  named 
her  the  Stranger  when  he  had  her  refitted. 
May  be  you  could  make  out  the  tail  of  an  S 
on  her  stern  if  you  could  git  around  there. 
That  name's  been  gone  these  forty  year; 
seem 's  if  she  never  owned  to  it,  and  it 
did  n't  stick  to  her.  She  was  never  called 
any  thin'  but  the  Alcazar,  long  as  ever  I 
knew  her,  and  I  expect  I  know  full 's  much 
about  her  as  anybody  round  here.  'T  was 
a-settin'  here  on  this  very  beach  at  low 
water,  just  's  we  be  now,  that  the  old  man 
told  me  fust  how  he  picked  her  up.  It  took 
a  wonderful  holt  on  him,  there  's  no  doubt 
about  that.  He  told  it  to  me  more  'n  once 
before  the  time  come  when  he  was  to  put 
the  finish  on  to  it;  but  in  a  gen'ral  way  the 
cap'n  wan't  much  of  a  talker,  and  he  was 
shy  of  this  partic'lar  business,  for  reasons 
that  I  expect  nobody  knows  much  about. 
But  a  man  most  always  likes  to  talk  to 
somebody,  no  matter  how  close-mouthed 
he  may  be.  'T  was  just  about  this  time 
o'  year,  fall  of  '27,  the  year  Parson  Fla 
vor  was  ordained,  Cap'n  Green  had  gone 
a-mack'rel-fishin'  with  his  two  boys  off  Isle 
au  Haut,  and  they  did  think  o'  cruisin'  out 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.    131 

into  Frenchman's  Bay  if  the  weather  hel' 
steady.  They  was  havin'  fair  luck,  hangin' 
round  the  island  off  and  on  for  a  matter 
of  a  week,  when  it  thickened  up  a  little  and 
set  in  foggy,  and  for  two  days  they  didn't 
see  the  shore.  The  second  evenin'  the  wind 
freshened  from  the  south 'ard  and  east'ard 
and  drove  the  fog  in  shore  a  bit,  and  the 
sun,  just  before  he  set,  looked  like  a  big 
yellow  ball  through  the  fog  and  made  a 
sickly  kind  of  a  glimmer  over  the  water. 
They  was  a-lyin'  at  anchor,  and  all  of  a 
sudden,  right  to  the  wind'ard  of  'em,  this 
old  ship  loomed  up,  driftin'  in  with  the 
wind  and  flood-tide.  They  could  n't  make 
her  out,  and  I  guess  for  a  minute  the  old 
cap'n  did  n't  know  but  it  was  the  Flyin' 
Dutchman;  but  she  hadn't  a  rag  o'  sail  on 
her,  and  as  she  got  nearer  they  could  see 
there  wan't  a  man  on  board.  The  cap'n 
didn't  like  the  looks  of  her,  but  he  knew 
she  wan't  no  phantom,  and  he  and  one  of 
his  boys  down  with  the  punt  and  went 
alongside.  'T  wan't  more  'n  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  to  her.  They  hailed  and  could  n't 
git  no  answer.  They  knew  she  was  a  fur- 
riner  by  her  build,  and  she  must  'a'  been  a 
long  time  at  sea  by  her  havin'  barnacles  on 


132    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

her  nigh  as  big  's  a  mack'rel  kit.  Finally, 
they  pulled  up  to  her  fore  -  chains  and 
clum  aboard  of  her.  I  never  see  a  ship 
abandoned  at  sea,  myself,  but  I  ain't  no 
doubt  but  what  it  made  'em  feel  kind  o' 
shivery  when  they  looked  aft  along  her 
decks,  and  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and  every- 
thin'  bleached,  and  gray,  and  iron -rusted, 
and  the  riggin'  all  slack  and  white  's 
though  it  had  been  chawed,  and  no  thin' 
left  of  her  sails  but  some  old  rags  flappin' 
like  a  last  year's  scarecrow.  They  went 
and  looked  in  the  fo'k'sel:  there  wan't 
nothin'  there  but  some  chists,  men's  chists, 
with  a  little  old  beddin'  left  in  the  bunks. 
They  went  down  the  companion-way :  cabin- 
door  unlocked,  everything  in  there  as  nat- 
'ral  's  though  it  had  just  been  left,  only 
't  was  kind  o'  mouldy-smellin'.  I  expect 
the  cap'n  give  a  kind  of  a  start  as  he 
looked  around.  'T  wan't  no  old  greasy 
whaler's  cabin,  nor  no  packet  -  ship  nei 
ther.  There  wan't  many  craft  like  her  on 
the  seas  in  them  days.  She  was  fixed  up 
inside  more  like  a  gentleman's  yacht  is 
now.  Merchantmen  in  them  days  did  n't 
have  their  Turkey  carpets  and  their  col 
ored  wine-glasses  jinglin'  in  the  racks. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.    133 

While  they  was  explorin'  round  in  there, 
movin'  round  kind  o'  cautious,  the  door 
of  the  cap'n's  stateroom  swung  open  with 
a  creak,  just  's  though  somebody  was 
a-shovin'  it  slow  like,  and  the  ship  give  a 
kind  of  a  stir  and  a  rustlin',  moanin' 
sound,  as  if  she  was  a-comin'  to  life.  The 
old  man  never  made  no  secret  but  what  he 
was  scairt  when  he  went  through  her  that 
night.  'Twan't  so  much  what  he  said  as 
the  way  he  looked  when  he  told  it.  I  ex 
pect  he  thought  he  'd  seen  enough,  about 
the  time  that  door  blew  open.  He  said 
he  knowed  't  was  nothin'  but  a  puff  o' 
wind  struck  her,  and  that  he  'd  better  be 
a-2'ittin'  on  to  his  own  craft  before  he  lost 

O 

her  in  the  fog.  So  he  went  back  and  got 
under  weigh,  and  sent  a  line  aboard  of  the 
stranger  and  took  her  in  tow,  and  all  that 
night  with  a  good  southeast  wind  they 
kept  a-movin'  toward  home.  The  old  man 
was  kind  o'  res'less  and  wakeful,  walkin' 
the  decks  and  lookin'  over  the  stern  at  the 
big  ship  follerin'  him  like  a  ghost.  The 
moonlight  was  a  little  dull  with  fog,  but  he 
could  see  her,  plain,  a-comin?  on  before  the 
wind  with  her  white  riggiii'  and  bare  poles, 
and  hear  the  water  sousin'  under  her  bows. 


134    THE  STORY  OF  TEE  ALCAZAR. 

He  said  'twas  in  his  mind  more  'n  a  dozen 
times  to  cut  her  adrift.  You  see  he  had 
his  misgivin's  about  her  from  the  fust, 
though  he  never  let  on  what  they  was ;  but 
he  hung  on  to  her  as  a  man  will,  sometimes, 
agin  feelin's  that  have  more  sense  in  'em 
than  reason,  like  as  not.  He  knew  every 
body  at  the  Harbor  would  laugh  at  him  for 
lettin'  go  such  a  prize  as  that  just  for  a 
notion,  and  it  wan't  his  way,  you  may  be 
sure;  he  didn't  need  no  one  to  tell  him 
what  she  was  wuth.  Anyhow  he  hung  to 
her,  and  next  day  they  beached  her  at 
high  water,  right  over  there  by  the  old 
ship-yard.  He  took  Deacon  S'lvine  and 
his  brother-in-law,  Cap'n  Purse  —  Pierce 
they  call  it  nowadays,  but  in  the  cap'n's 
time  't  was  Purse.  That  sounds  kind  o' 
broad  and  comfortable,  like  the  cap'n's 
wescoat;  but  the  family  's  thinnin'  down  a 
good  deal  lately  and  gettin'  kind  o'  sharp 
and  lean,  and  may  be  Pierce  is  more  suita 
ble.  But  's  I  was  sayin',  Cap'n  Green 
took  them  two  —  cheerful,  loud-talkin'  men 
they  was  both  of  'em  —  aboard  of  her  to 
go  through  her,  for  he  hadn't  no  notion  o' 
goin'  into  that  cap'n's  stateroom  alone, 
even  in  broad  daylight;  but  't wan't  there 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.    135 

the  secret  of  her  lay;  there  wan't  nothin' 
in  there  to  scare  anybody.  She  was 
trimmed  up,  I  tell  you,  just  elegant.  Eeal 
mahogany,  none  of  your  veneerin',  but  the 
real  stuff;  lace  curt'ins  to  the  berth,  lace  on 
the  pillows,  and  a  satin  coverlid,  rumpled 
up  as  though  the  cap'n  had  just  turned 
out;  and  there  was  his  slippers  handy  — 
the  greatest-lookin'  slippers  for  a  man  you 
ever  saw.  They  would  n't  'a'  been  too 
big  for  the  neatest-footed  woman  in  the 
Harbor.  But  Land!  they  was  just  thick 
with  mould,  and  so  was  every  thin'  in  the 
place,  even  to  an  old  gittar  with  the  strings 
most  rotted  off  of  it,  and  the  picters  of  fur- 
rin-lookin'  women  on  the  walls, — triflin'- 
lookin'  creeturs  most  of  'em.  They  hunted 
all  through  his  desk,  but  could  n't  find  no 
log.  'T  was  plain  enough  that  whoever  'd 
left  that  ship  had  took  pains  that  she 
shouldn't  tell  no  tales,  and  't wan't  long 
before  they  found  out  the  reason. 

"  When  they  come  to  go  below,  —  there 
was  considerable  of  a  crowd  on  deck  by  that 
time,  standin'  round  while  they  knocked 
out  the  keys  and  took  off  the  fore  -  hatch, 
—  Cap'n  Green  called  on  Cap'n  Purse  and 
the  deacon  to  go  down  with  him ;  but  they 


136    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

didn't  'pear  to  be  very  anxious,  and  the  old 
man  wan't  goin'  to  hang  back  for  company 
with  everybody  lookin'  at  him,  so  he  lit 
a  candle  and  went  down,  and  the  folks 
crowded  round  and  waited  for  him.  I 
was  there  myself,  's  close  to  him  as  I  be 
to  that  fish  barrel,  when  he  come  up,  his 
face  white  's  a  sheet  and  the  candle  shakin' 
in  his  hand,  and  sot  down  on  the  hatch- 
combin'. 

"'Give  me  room! '  says  he,  kind  o'  lean- 
in'  back  on  the  crowd.  'Give  me  air,  can't 
you?  She's  full  o'  dead  niggers.  She's 
a  slaver. ' 

"Now,  't  was  the  talk  pretty  gen'rally 
that  the  cap'n  had  had  a  hand  in  that  busi 
ness  himself  in  his  early  days,  and  that  it 
set  uncomfortable  on  him  afterwards.  It 
never  was  known  how  he  'd  got  his  money. 
He  did  n't  have  any  to  begin  with.  He  was 
always  a  kind  of  a  lone  bird  and  dug  his 
way  along  up  somehow.  Nobody  knows 
what  was  workin'  on  him  while  he  sot 
there ;  he  looked  awful  sick.  It  was  kind 
of  quiet  for  a  minute,  but  them  that 
couldn't  see  him  kep'  pushin'  for'ards  and 
callin'  out:  'What  d' you  see?  What's 
down  there?  '  And  them  close  by  wanted 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.   137 

to  know,  all  talkin'  to  once,  why  he  thought 
she  was  a  slaver,  and  how  long  the  niggers 
had  been  dead.  Lord!  what  a  fuss  there 
was.  Everybody  askin'  the  foolishest  ques 
tions,  and  crowdin'  and  squeezin',  and  them 
in  front  pushin'  back  away  from  the  hatch 
way,  as  if  they  expected  the  dead  would  rise 
and  walk  out  o'  that  black  hole  where  they  'd 
laid  so  long.  They  couldn't  get  much  out 
o'  the  old  man,  except  that  there  was  skel'- 
tons  scattered  all  over  the  after  hold,  and 
that  he  knew  she  was  a  slaver  by  the  way 
she  was  fixed  up.  ^How'd.  he  know?' 
folks  asked  amongst  themselves ;  but  nobody 
liked  to  ask  the  cap'n.  As  for  how  long 
them  Africans  had  been  dead,  they  had  to 
find  that  out  for  themselves,  —  all  they  ever 
did  find  out,  — for  the  cap'n  wouldn't  talk 
about  it,  and  he  would  n't  go  down  in  her 
again.  It  'peared  's  if  he  was  satisfied. 

"Wai,  it  made  a  terrible  stir  in  the 
place.  As  I  tell  you,  they  come  from  fifty 
mile  around  to  see  her.  They  had  it  all  in 
the  papers.  Some  had  one  idee  and  some 
another  about  the  way  she  come  to  be 
abandoned,  all  in  good  shape  and  them 
human  bein's  in  her  hold.  Some  said  ship- 
fever,  some  said  mutiny ;  but  when  they  come 


138    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

to  look  her  over  and  found  there  wan't  a 
water-cask  aboard  of  her  that  hadn't  s'runk 
up  and  gone  to  pieces,  they  settled  down 
on  the  notion  that  she  was  a  Spanish  or  a 
Cubian  slaver,  or  may  be  a  Portagee,  got 
short  o'  water  in  the  horse-latitudes;  cap'n 
and  crew  left  her  in  the  boats,  and  the 
niggers  —  Lord !  it  makes  a  body  sick  to 
think  o'  them.  That  was  always  my  the'ry 
'bout  her  —  short  o'  water;  but  some  folks 
wan't  satisfied  'thout  somethin'  more  ex- 
citin'.  'T  wan't  enough  for  'em  to  have  all 
them  creeturs  dyin'  down  there  by  inches. 
They  stuck  to  it  about  some  blood-stains  on 
the  linin'  in  her  hold,  but  I  tell  you  the 
difference  between  old  blood-stains  and  rust 
that 's  may  be  ten  or  fifteen  years  old 's 
might'  hard  to  tell. 

"Nobody  knows  what  the  old  cap'n  was 
thinkin'  about  in  them  days.  'Twas  full 
three  month  or  more  'fore  he  went  aboard  of 
her  ag'in.  He  let  it  be  known  about  that 
he  wanted  to  sell  her,  but  he  couldn't  git 
an  offer  even;  nobody  seemed  to  want  to 
take  hold  of  her.  Winter  set  in  early  and 
the  ice  blocked  her  in,  and  there  she  lay, 
the  lonesomest  thing  in  sight.  You  never 
see  no  child 'n  climbin'  'round  on  her,  and 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.    139 

there  was  a  story  that  queer  noises  like 
moanin'  and  clankin'  of  chains  come  out 
of  her  on  windy  nights;  but  it  might  'a' 
been  the  ice,  crowdin'  as  she  careened  over 
and  back  with  the  risin'  and  fallin'  tide. 
But  when  spring  opened,  folks  used  to  see 
the  old  cap' 11  hangin'  round  the  ship -yard 
and  lookin'  her  over  at  low  tide,  where  the 
ice  had  cut  the  barnacles  off  of  her. 

"One  night  in  the  store  he  figgered  up 
how  much  lumber  she  'd  carry  from  Ban- 
gor,  and  't  wan't  long  'fore  he  had  a  gang 
o'  men  at  work  on  her.  It  seemed  's 
though  he  was  kind  of  infatuated  with  her. 
He  was  'fraid  of  her,  but  he  couldn't  let 
her  alone.  And  she  was  a  mighty  well- 
built  craft.  Floridy  pine  and  live  -  oak 
and  mahogany  from  the  Mosquito  coast; 
built  in  Cadiz,  most  likely.  Look  at  her 
now  —  she  don't  look  to  home  here,  does 
she?  She  never  did.  She 's  as  much  like 
our  harbor  craft  as  one  o'  them  big,  yallow- 
eyed,  bare-necked  buzzards  is  to  one  o' 
these  here  little  sand-peeps.  But  she  was 
a  handsome  vessel.  Them  live-oak  ribs  '11 
outlast  your  time,  if  you  was  to  live  to  be 
old." 

The  two  faces  looked  up  at  the  hulk  of 


140    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

the  Alcazar,  —  the  blanched,  wave-worn 
messenger  sent  by  the  tropic  seas  into  the 
far  North  with  a  tale  that  the  living  had 
never  dared  to  tell,  and  that  had  perished 
on  the  lips  of  the  dead.  Its  shadow,  spread 
ing  broad  upon  the  beach,  made  the  gather 
ing  twilight  deeper.  Out  on  the  harbor  the 
pale  saffron  light  lingered,  long  after  the 
red  had  faded.  How  many  tides  had  ebbed 
and  flowed  since  the  old  ship,  chained  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliff,  had  warmed  in  the 
waters  of  the  Gulf  her  bare,  corrugated 
sides,  warped  by  the  frosts,  stabbed  by  the 
ice  of  pitiless  Northern  winters!  Where 
were  the  sallow,  dark-bearded  faces  that 
had  watched  from  her  high  poop  the  brief 
twilights  die  on  that  "unshadowed  main," 
which  a  century  ago  was  the  scene  of  some 
of  the  wildest  romances  and  blackest  crimes 
in  maritime  history — the  bright,  restless 
bosom  that  warmed  into  life  a  thousand 
serpents  whose  trail  could  be  traced 
through  the  hot,  flower-scented  Southern 
plazas  and  courts  into  the  peaceful  white 
villages  of  the  North ! 

"Sho!  I  'd  no  idee  'twas  a-gittin'  on  so 
late,"  said  Captain  John.  "There  ain't 
anybody  watchin'  out  for  me.  I  kin  put 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.    141 

my  family  under  my  hat,   but  I  don'  know 
what  your  folks  '11  think  's  come  o'  you. 

"Wai,  the  rest  on  't  won't  take  long  to 
tell.  The  old  man  had  her  fitted  up  in 
good  shape  by  the  time  the  ice  was  out  of 
the  river,  and  run  her  up  to  Bangor  in  bal 
last,  and  loaded  her  there  for  New  York. 
He  had  an  ugly  trip  down  the  coast:  lost 
his  deck  load  and  three  men  overboard  in  a 
southeaster  off  Nantucket  Shoals.  It  made 
the  whole  ship's  company  feel  pretty  sol 
emn,  but  the  old  man  took  it  the  hardest 
of  any  of  'em,  and  from  that  time  seems  as 
if  he  lost  his  grip;  the  old  scare  settled 
back  on  him  blacker  'n  ever.  There  wan't 
a  man  aboard  of  her  that  liked  her.  They 
all  knew  her  story,  that  she  was  the  Al 
cazar  from  nobody  knows  where,  instead 
of  the  Stranger  from  Newburyport.  The 
cap'n  had  Newburyport  put  on  to  her 
because  he  was  a  Newburyport  man  and 
all  his  vessels  was  built  there.  But  she 
had  n't  more  'n  touched  the  dock  in  New 
York  before  every  one  on  'em  left  her,  even 
to  the  cook.  4I  'm  leery  o'  this  'ere  ship,' 
says  one  big  Cornishman.  'No  better  than 
a  floatiir  coffin,  anyway,'  was  what  they  all 
said  of  her ;  and  I  guess  the  cap'n  would  'a' 


142   THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

left  her  right  there  himself  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  money  he  'd  put  into  her.  1 
expect  he  was  a  little  too  fond  of  money, 
may  be;  but  I've  knowed  others  just  as 
sharp's  the  old  cap'n  that  didn't  seem  to 
have  his  luck.  The  mate  saw  him  two  or 
three  times  while  he  was  a-lyin'  in  New 
York,  and  noticed  he  was  drinkiii'  more  'n 
usual.  He  come  home  light  and  anchored 
off  the  bar,  just  as  a  southeaster  was  a-com- 
in'  on.  It  wouldn't  'a'  been  no  trouble  for 
him  to  have  laid  there,  if  he  'd  had  good 
ground-gear;  but  there  'twas  ag'in,  he  'd 
been  a  leetle  too  savin'.  He  'd  used  the 
old  cables  he  found  in  her.  The  new  mate 
didn't  know  nothiii'  about  her,  and  he  put 
out  one  anchor.  The  cap'n  had  taken  a 
kag  o'  New  England  rum  aboard  and  been 
drawin'  on  it  pretty  reg'lar  all  the  way  up, 
and  as  the  gale  come  on  he  got  kind  o' 
wild  and  went  at  it  harder  'n  ever.  About 
midnight  the  cable  parted.  They  let  go 
the  other  anchor,  but  it  didn't  snub  her  for 
a  minute,  and  she  swung,  broadside  to,  on 
to  the  bar.  The  men  clum  into  the  riggin' 
before  she  struck,  but  the  old  cap'n  was 
stagger  in'  'round  decks,  kind  o'  dazed  and 
dumb -like,  not  try  in'  to  do  any  thin'  to  save 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.    143 

himself.  The  mate  tried  to  git  him  into 
the  riggin',  seem'  he  wan't  in  no  condition 
to  look  out  for  himself;  but  the  old  man 
struck  loose  from  his  holt  and  cried  out  to 
him  through  the  noise :  — 

"'Let  me  alone!  I've  got  to  go  with 
her.  I  tell  ye  I  've  got  to  go  with  her !  ' 

"The  mate  just  had  time  to  swing  him 
self  back  into  the  mizzen-shrouds  before  the 
sea  broke  over  her  and  left  the  decks  bare. 
The  old  ship  pounded  over  the  bar  in  an 
hour  or  so,  and  drifted  up  here  on  to  the 
beach  where  she  is  now.  Every  man  on 
board  was  saved  except  the  cap'n.  He 
'went  with  her,'  sure  enough. 

"There  was  talk  enough  about  that  thing 
before  they  got  done  with  it  to  'a'  made 
the  old  man  roll  in  his  grave.  They  raked 
up  all  the  stories  about  his  cruisin'  on  the 
Spanish  main  when  he  was  a  young  man. 
They  wan't  stories  he  'd  ever  told;  he 
wan't  much  of  a  hand  to  talk  about  what 
he  'd  seen  and  done  on  his  v'yages.  They 
never  let  him  rest  till  'twas  pretty  much 
the  gen'ral  belief,  and  is  to  this  day,  that 
he  knew  more  about  that  slaver  from  the 
first  than  he  ever  owned  to. 

"I  never  had  much  to  say  about  it,  but 


144    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

'twas  plain  enough  to  me.  I  had  my  sus 
picions  the  mornin'  he  towed  her  in.  He 
looked  terrible  shattered.  It  'peared  to  me 
he  wan't  ever  the  same  man  afterwards. 

"  'I  've  got  to  go  with  her!  '  Them  was 
his  last  words.  He  knew  that  ship  and  him 
belonged  together,  same  as  a  man  and  his 
sins.  He  knew  she  'd  been  a-huntin'  him 
up  and  down  the  western  ocean  for  twenty 
year,  with  them  dead  o'  his'n  in  her  hold, 
—  and  she  'd  hunted  him  down  at  last." 

Captain  John  paused  with  this  perora 
tion:  he  dug  a  hole  in  the  wet  sand  with 
the  toe  of  his  boot,  and  watched  it  slowly 
fill. 

"'Twas  a  bait  most  any  one  would  V 
smelt  of,  a  six-hundred-ton  ship  and  every 
timber  in  her  sound;  but  you  'd  'a'  thought 
he  'd  been  more  cautious,  knowin'  what  he 
did  of  her.  She  was  bound  to  have  him, 
though." 

"Captain  John,"  said  the  boy,  a  little 
hoarse  from  his  long  silence,  "what  do  you 
suppose  it  was  he  did?  Anything  except 
just  leave  them  —  the  negroes,  I  mean?" 

"  Lord !  Wan't  that  enough  ?  To  steal 
'em,  and  then  leave  'em  there  —  battened 
down  like  rats  in  the  hold!  However,  I 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR.    145 

expect  there  ain't  anybody  that  can  tell  you 
the  whole  of  that  story.  It 's  one  of  them 
mysteries  that  rests  with  the  dead. 

"The  new  mate  —  the  young   fellow  he 
brought  on  from  New  York  —  he  married 

O 

the  cap'n's  daughter.  None  o'  the  Harbor 
boys  ever  seemed  to  jibe  in  with  her.  I 
always  had  a  notion  that  she  was  a  touch 
above  most  of  'em,  but  she  and  her  mother 
was  as  good  as  a  providence  to  them  ship 
wrecked  men  when  they  was  throwed  ashore, 
strangers  in  the  place  and  no  money;  and 
it  ended  in  Rachel's  takin'  up  with  the  mate 
and  the  whole  family's  leavin'  the  place. 
It  was  long  after  all  the  talk  died  away 
that  the  widow  come  back  and  lived  here  in 
the  same  quiet  way  she  always  had,  till  she 
was  laid  alongside  the  old  cap'n.  There 
wan't  a  better  woman  ever  walked  this 
earth  than  Mary  Green,  that  was  Mary 
Spofford." 

Captain  John  rose  from  the  bowsprit 
and  rubbed  his  cramped  knees  before  climb 
ing  the  hill.  He  parted  with  his  young  lis 
tener  at  the  top  and  took  a  lonely  path 
across  the  shore-pasture  to  a  little  cabin, 
where  no  light  shone,  built  like  the  nest  of 
a  sea-bird  on  the  edge  of  high-water  mark. 


146    THE  STORY  OF  THE  ALCAZAR. 

On  the  gray  beach  below,  a  small,  dingy 
yawl,  with  one  sail  loosely  bundled  over  the 
thwarts,  leaned  toward  the  door -latch  as  if 
listening  for  its  click.  It  had  an  almost 
human  expression  of  patient  though  wist 
ful  waiting.  It  was  the  poorest  boat  in 
the  Harbor ;  it  had  no  name  painted  on  its 
stern,  but  Captain  John,  in  the  solitude  of 
his  watery  wanderings  among  the  islands 
and  channels  of  the  bay,  always  called  her 
the  Mary  Spofford.  The  boy  from  the 
main  went  home  slowly  along  the  village 
street  toward  the  many-windowed  house  in 
which  his  mother  and  sisters  were  boarding. 
There  were  voices,  calling  and  singing 
abroad  on  the  night  air,  reflected  from  the 
motionless,  glimmering  sheet  of  dark  water 
below  as  from  a  sounding-board.  Cow-bells 
tinkled  away  among  the  winding  paths 
along  the  low,  dim  shores.  The  night-call 
of  the  heron  from  the  muddy  flats  struck 
sharply  across  the  stillness,  and  from  the 
outer  bay  came  the  murmur  of  the  old 
ground-swell,  which  never  rests,  even  in 
the  calmest  weather. 


A   CLOUD    ON   THE    MOUNTAIN. 

RUTH  MARY  stood  on  the  high  river 
bank,  looking  along  the  beach  below  to  see 
if  her  small  brother  Tommy  was  lurking 
anywhere  under  the  willows  with  his  fishing- 
pole.  He  had  been  sent  half  an  hour  be 
fore  to  the  earth  cellar  for  potatoes,  and 
Ruth  Mary's  father,  Mr.  Tully,  was  wait 
ing  for  his  dinner. 

She  did  not  see  Tommy;  but  while  she 
lingered,  looking  at  the  river  hurrying  down 
the  shoot  between  the  hills  and  curling  up 
over  the  pebbles  of  the  bar,  she  saw  a  team 
of  bay  horses  and  a  red  -  wheeled  wagon 
come  rattling  down  the  stony  slope  of  the 
opposite  shore.  In  the  wagon  she  counted 
four  men.  Three  of  them  wore  white,  hel 
met-shaped  hats  that  made  brilliant  spots  of 
light  against  the  bank.  The  horses  were 
driven  half  their  length  into  the  stream  and 
allowed  to  drink,  as  well  as  they  could  for 
the  swiftness  of  the  current,  while  the  men 
seemed  to  consult  together,  the  two  on  the 


148         A    CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

front  seat  turning  back  to  speak  with  the 
two  behind,  and  pointing  across  the  river. 

Ruth  Mary  watched  them  with  much  in 
terest,  for  travelers  such  as  these  seemed 
to  be  seldom  came  as  far  up  Bear  River 
valley  as  the  Tullys'  cattle  range.  The 
visitors  who  came  to  them  were  mostly  cow 
boys  looking  up  stray  cattle,  or  miners  on 
their  way  to  the  "Banner  district,"  or 
packers  with  mule  trains  going  over  the 
mountains,  to  return  in  three  weeks,  or 
three  months,  as  their  journey  prospered. 
Fishermen  and  hunters  came  up  into  the 
hills  in  the  season  of  trout  and  deer,  but 
they  came  as  a  rule  on  horseback,  and  at  a 
distance  were  hardly  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  cow-boys  and  the  miners. 

The  men  in  the  wagon  were  evidently 
strangers  to  that  locality.  They  had  seen 
Ruth  Mary  watching  them  from  the  hill, 
and  now  one  of  them  rose  up  in  the  wagon 
and  shouted  across  to  her,  pointing  to  the 
river. 

She  could  not  hear  his  words  for  the 
noise  of  the  ripple  and  of  the  wind  which 
blew  freshly  down-stream,  but  she  under 
stood  that  he  was  inquiring  about  the  ford. 
She  motioned  up  the  river  and  called  to 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.         149 

him,  though  she  knew  her  words  could  not 
reach  him,  to  keep  on  the  edge  of  the  rip 
ple.  Her  gestures,  however,  aided  by  the 
driver's  knowledge  of  fords,  were  sufficient; 
he  turned  his  horses  up-stream  and  they 
took  water  at  the  place  she  had  tried  to 
indicate.  The  wagon  sank  to  the  wheel- 
hubs;  the  horses  kept  their  feet  well, 
though  the  current  was  strong;  the  sun 
shone  brightly  on  the  white  hats  and  laugh 
ing  faces  of  the  men,  on  the  guns  in  their 
hands,  on  the  red  paint  of  the  wagon  and 
the  warm  backs  of  the  horses  breasting  the 
stream.  When  they  were  halfway  across, 
one  of  the  men  tossed  a  small,  reluctant 
black  dog  over  the  wheel  into  the  river, 
and  all  the  company,  with  the  exception  of 
the  driver,  who  was  giving  his  attention  to 
his  horses,  broke  into  hilarious  shouts  of 
encouragement  to  the  swimmer  in  his  strug 
gle  with  the  current.  It  was  carrying  him 
down  and  would  have  landed  him,  with 
out  effort  of  his  own,  on  a  strip  of  white 
sand  beach  under  the  willows  above  the 
bend;  but  now  the  unhappy  little  object, 
merely  a  black  nose  and  two  blinking  anx 
ious  eyes  above  the  water,  had  drifted  into 
an  eddy,  from  which  he  cast  forlorn  glances 


150         A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

toward  his  faithless  friends  in  the  wagon. 
The  dog  was  in  no  real  peril,  but  Ruth 
Mary  did  not  know  this,  and  her  heart 
swelled  with  indignant  pity.  Only  shyness 
kept  her  from  wading  to  his  rescue.  Now 
one  of  the  laughing  young  men,  thinking 
the  joke  had  gone  far  enough  perhaps,  and 
reckless  of  a  wetting,  leaped  out  into  the 
water,  and,  plunging  along  in  his  high 
boots,  soon  had  the  terrier  by  the  scruff  of 
his  neck,  and  waded  ashore  with  his  sleek, 
quivering  little  body  nestled  in  the  bosom 
of  his  flannel  hunting  shirt. 

A  deep  cut  in  the  bank,  through  which 
the  wagon  was  dragged,  was  screened  by 
willows.  When  the  fording  party  had  ar 
rived  at  the  top,  Euth  Mary  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  "Where  's  that  girl  got  to  all 
of  a  sudden?"  one  of  the  men  demanded. 
They  had  intended  to  ask  her  several  ques 
tions;  but  she  was  gone,  and  the  road  be 
fore  them  plainly  led  to  the  low-roofed 
cabin,  and  loosely  built  barn  with  straw 
and  daylight  showing  through  its  cracks, 
the  newly  planted  poplar-trees  above  the 
thatched  earth  cellar,  and  all  the  signs  of  a 
tentative  home  in  this  solitude  of  the  hills. 

They  drove  on    slowly,   the  young   man 


A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.         151 

who  had  waded  ashore,  whom  his  comrades 
addressed  as  Kirkwood  or  Kirk,  walking 
behind  the  wagon  with  the  dog  in  his  arms, 
responding  to  his  whimpering  claims  for 
attention  with  teasing  caresses.  The  dog,  it 
seemed,  was  the  butt  as  well  as  the  pet  of 
the  party.  As  they  approached  the  house 
he  scrambled  out  of  Kirkwood 's  arms  and 
lingered  to  take  a  roll  in  the  sandy  path, 
coming  up  a  moment  afterward  to  be  re 
ceived  with  blighting  sarcasms  upon  his  ap 
pearance.  After  his  ignominious  wetting 
he  was  quite  unable  to  bear  up  under  them, 
and  slunk  to  the  rear  with  deprecatory 
blinks  and  waggings  of  his  tail  whenever 
one  of  the  men  looked  back. 

Ruth  Mary  had  run  home  quickly  to  tell 
her  father,  who  was  sitting  in  the  sun  by 
the  wood-pile,  of  the  arrival  of  strangers 
from  across  the  river.  Mr.  Tully  rose  up 
deliberately  and  went  to  meet  his  guests, 
keeping  between  his  teeth  the  sliver  of  pine 
he  had  been  chewing  while  waiting  for  his 
dinner.  It  helped  to  bear  him  out  in  that 
appearance  of  indifference  he  thought  it 
well  to  assume,  as  if  such  arrivals  were  an 
every-day  occurrence. 

"Hasn't  Tommy  got  back  yet,  mother?  " 


152         A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Kuth  Mary  asked  as  she  entered  the  house. 
Mrs.  Tully  was  a  stout,  low  -  browed  wo 
man,  with  grayish  yellow  hair  of  that  dry 
and  lifeless  texture  which  shows  declining 
health  or  want  of  care.  Her  blue  eyes 
looked  faded  in  the  setting  of  her  tanned 
complexion.  She  sat  in  a  low  chair,  her 
knees  wide  apart,  defined  by  her  limp  cal 
ico  draperies,  rocking  a  child  of  two  years, 
a  fat  little  girl  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
flaxen  hair  braided  into  tight  knots  on  her 
forehead,  who  was  asleep  in  the  large  cush 
ioned  rocking-chair  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  The  room  was  somewhat  bare,  for 
the  shed-room  outside  was  evidently  the 
more  used  part  of  the  house.  The  cook 
stove  was  there  in  the  inclosed  corner,  and 
beside  it  a  table  and  shelf  with  a  tin  hand- 
basin  hanging  beneath,  while  the  crannies 
of  the  logs  on  each  side  of  the  doorway 
were  utilized  as  shelves  for  all  the  house 
hold  articles  in  frequent  requisition  that 
were  not  hanging  from  nails  driven  into 
the  logs,  or  from  the  projecting  roof -poles 
against  the  light. 

Tommy  had  not  returned,  and  Mrs.  Tully 
suggested  as  a  reason  for  his  delay  that  he 
had  stopped  somewhere  to  catch  grasshop 
pers  for  bait. 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.         153 

"I  should  think  he  had  enough  of  'em  in 
that  bottle  of  his,"  Ruth  Mary  said,  "to  last 
him  till  the  'hoppers  come  again.  Some 
strange  men  forded  the  river  just  now. 
Father  's  gone  to  speak  to  them.  I  guess 
he  '11  ask  'em  to  stop  to  dinner." 

Mrs.  Tully  got  up  heavily  and  went  to 
the  door.  "Here,  Angy,"  —  she  addressed 
a  girl  of  eight  or  ten  years  who  sat  on  the 
flat  boulder  that  was  the  cabin  doorstep; 
-  "you  go  get  them  taters;  that 's  a  good 
girl,"  she  added  coaxingly,  as  Angy  did  not 
stir.  "  If  your  foot  hurts  you,  you  can  walk 
on  your  heel." 

Angy,  who  was  complaining  of  a  stone- 
bruise,  got  up  and  limped  away,  upsetting 
from  her  lap  as  she  rose  two  kittens  of  ten 
der  years,  who  tumbled  over  each  other 
before  getting  their  legs  under  them,  and 
staggered  off,  steering  themselves  jerkily 
with  their  tails. 

"Oh,  Angy!"  Ruth  Mary  remonstrated, 
but  she  could  not  stay  to  comfort  the  kit 
tens.  She  ran  up  the  short,  crooked  stairs 
leading  to  the  garret  bedroom  which  she 
shared  with  Angy,  hastily  to  put  on  her 
shoes  and  stockings  and  brace  her  pretty 
figure,  under  the  blue  calico  waist  she  wore, 


154        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

with  her  first  pair  of  stays,  an  important 
purchase  made  on  her  last  visit  to  the  town 
in  the  valley,  and  to  be  worn  now,  if  ever. 
It  was  hot  at  noon  in  the  bedroom  under  the 
roof,  and  by  the  time  Euth  Mary  had  forti 
fied  herself  to  meet  the  eyes  of  strangers 
she  was  uncomfortably  flushed,  and  short  of 
breath  besides  from  the  pressure  of  the  new 
stays.  She  went  slowly  down  the  uneven 
stairs,  wishing  that  she  could  walk  as  softly 
in  her  shoes  as  she  could  barefoot. 

Her  father  was  talking  to  the  strangers 
in  the  shed-room.  They  seemed  tall  and 
formidable,  under  the  low  roof,  against  the 
flat  glare  of  the  sun  on  the  hard-swept 
ground  in  front  of  the  shed.  She  waited 
inside  until  her  mother  reminded  her  of  the 
dinner  half  cooked  on  the  stove;  then  she 
went  out  shyly,  the  light  falling  on  her 
downcast  face  and  full  white  eyelids,  on 
her  yellow  hair,  sun-faded  and  meekly 
parted  over  her  forehead,  which  was  low 
like  her  mother's,  but  smooth  as  one  of  the 
white  stones  of  the  river  beach.  Her  fair 
skin  was  burned  to  a  clear,  light  red  tint, 
and  her  blonde  eyebrows  and  lashes  showed 
silvery  against  it,  but  her  chin  was  very 
white  underneath,  and  there  was  a  white 


A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.         155 

space  behind  each  of  her  little  ears  where 
her  hair  was  knotted  tightly  away  from 
her  neck. 

"This  is  my  daughter,"  Mr.  Tully  said 
briefly;  and  then  he  gave  some  hospitable 
orders  about  dinner  which  the  strangers 
interrupted,  saying  that  they  had  brought 
a  lunch  with  them  and  would  not  trouble 
the  family  until  supper-time. 

They  gathered  up  their  hunting  gear,  and 
lifting  their  hats  to  Ruth  Mary,  followed 
Mr.  Tully,  who  had  offered  to  show  them 
the  best  fishing  on  that  part  of  the  river. 

Mr.  Tully  explained  to  his  wife  and 
daughter,  as  the  latter  placed  the  dinner  on 
the  table,  that  three  of  the  strangers  were 
the  engineers  from  the  railroad  camp  at 
Moor's  Bridge,  and  the  fourth  was  a  packer 
and  teamster  from  the  same  camp ;  that  they 
were  all  going  up  the  river  to  look  at  tim 
ber,  and  wanted  a  little  sport  by  the  way. 
They  had  expected  to  keep  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  but  seeing  the  ranch  on 
the  opposite  shore,  with  wheel-tracks  going- 
down  to  the  water,  they  had  concluded  to 
try  the  ford  and  the  fishing  and  ask  for  a 
night's  accommodation. 

"They  don't  want  we   should   put   our- 


156        A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

selves  out  any.  They  're  used  to  roughin' 
it,  they  say.  If  you  can  git  together  some- 
thin'  to  feed  'em  on,  mother,  they  say 
they  'd  as  soon  sleep  on  the  straw  in  the 
barn  as  anywheres  else." 

"There  's  plenty  to  eat,  such  as  it  is,  but 
Kuth  Mary  '11  have  it  all  to  do.  I  can't  be 
on  my  feet."  Mrs.  Tully  spoke  in  a  de 
pressed  tone,  but  to  her  110  less  than  to  her 
husband  was  this  little  break  welcome  in 
the  monotony  of  their  life  in  the  hills,  even 
though  it  brought  with  it  a  more  vivid  con 
sciousness  of  the  family  circumstances,  and 
a  review  of  them  in  the  light  of  former 
standards  of  comfort  and  gentility :  for  Mrs. 
Tully  had  been  a  woman  of  some  social 
pretensions,  in  the  small  Eastern  village 
where  she  was  born.  To  all  that  to  her 
guests  made  the  unique  charm  of  her  pres 
ent  home  she  had  grown  callous,  if  she  had 
ever  felt  it  at  all,  while  dwelling  with  an 
incurable  regret  upon  the  neatly  painted 
houses  and  fenced  door-yards,  the  gather 
ings  of  women  in  their  best  clothes  in 
primly  furnished  parlors  on  summer  after 
noons,  the  church-going,  the  passing  in  the 
street,  and,  more  than  all,  the  housekeeping 
conveniences  she  had  been  used  to,  accumu- 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.         157 

lated  through  many  years'  occupancy  of  the 
same  house. 

"Seems  as  though  I  hadn't  any  ambition 
left,"  she  often  complained  to  her  daughter. 
"There's  nothin'  here  to  do  with,  and  no 
body  to  do  for.  The  most  of  the  folks  we 
ever  see  wouldn't  know  sour-dough  bread 
from  salt-risin',  and  as  for  dressiu'  up,  I 
might  keep  the  same  clothes  on  from  Fourth 
July  till  Christmas  —  your  father 'd  never 
know." 

But  Ruth  Mary  was  haunted  by  no  flesh- 
pots  of  the  past.  As  she  dressed  the  chick 
ens  and  mixed  the  biscuit  for  supper,  she 
paused  often  in  her  work  and  looked  towards 
the  high  pastures  with  the  pale  brown  lights 
and  purple  shadows  on  them,  rolling  away 
and  rising  towards  the  great  timbered 
ridges,  and  these  lifting  here  and  there 
along  their  profiles  a  treeless  peak  or  bare 
divide  into  the  regions  above  vegetation. 
She  had  no  misgivings  about  her  home. 
Fences  would  not  have  improved  her  fa 
ther's  vast  lawn,  to  her  mind,  or  white 
paint  the  low-browed  front  of  his  dwelling; 
nor  did  she  feel  the  want  of  a  stair-carpet 
and  a  parlor  -  organ.  She  was  sure  that 
they,  the  strangers,  had  never  seen  any- 


158         A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

thing  more  lovely  than  her  beloved  river 
dancing  down  between  the  hills,  tripping 
over  rapids,  wrinkling  over  sand-bars  of  its 
own  spreading,  and  letting  out  its  speed 
down  the  long  reaches  where  the  channel 
was  deep. 

About  four  o'clock  she  found  leisure  to 
stroll  along  the  shore  with  Tommy,  whose 
competitive  energies  as  a  fisherman  had 
been  stimulated  by  the  advent  of  strange 
craftsmen  with  scientific  -  looking  tackle. 
Tommy  must  forthwith  show  what  native 
skill  could  do  with  a  willow  pole  and  grass 
hoppers  for  bait.  But  Ruth  Mary's  sense 
of  propriety  would  by  no  means  tolerate 
Tommy's  intruding  his  company  upon  the 
strangers,  and  to  frustrate  any  rash,  grega 
rious  impulses  on  his  part  she  judged  it 
best  to  keep  him  in  sight. 

Tommy  knew  of  a  deep  pool  under  the 
willows  which  he  could  whip,  unseen,  in  the 
shady  hours  of  the  afternoon.  Thither  he 
led  Ruth  Mary,  leaving  her  seated  upon  the 
bank  above  him  lest  she  should  be  tempted 
to  talk,  and  so  interfere  with  his  sport. 
The  moments  went  by  in  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  river ;  Ruth  Mary  happy  on  the 
high  bank  in  the  sun,  Tommy  happy  by 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.         159 

the  shady  pool  below,  and  now  and  then 
slapping  a  lively  trout  upon  the  stones. 
Across  the  river  two  Chinamen  were  wash 
ing  gravel  in  a  rude  miner's  cradle,  pad 
dling  about  on  the  river's  brink,  and  anon 
staggering  down  from  the  gravel  bank 
above,  with  large  square  kerosene  cans  filled 
with  pay  dirt  balanced  on  either  end  of  a 
pole  across  their  meagre  shoulders.  Bare 
headed,  in  their  loose  garments,  with  their 
pottering  movements  and  wrinkled  faces 
shining  with  heat,  they  looked  like  two 
weird,  unrevered  old  women  working  out 
some  dismal  penance.  High  up  in  the  sky 
the  great  black  buzzards  sailed  and  sailed 
on  slanting  wing ;  the  wood  doves  coo-oo-ed 
from  the  willow  thickets  that  gathered  the 
sunlight  close  to  the  water's  edge.  A  few 
horses  and  cattle  moved  like  specks  upon 
the  sides  of  the  hills,  cropping  the  bunch- 
grass,  but  the  greater  herds  had  been  driven 
up  into  the  high  pastures  where  the  snow 
falls  early;  and  all  these  lower  hills  were 
bare  of  life,  unless  one  might  fancy  that 
the  far-off  processions  of  pines  against  the 
sky,  marching  up  the  northern  sides  of  the 
divides,  had  a  solemn  personality,  going  up 
like  priests  to  a  sacrifice,  or  that  the  rest- 


160        A    CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

less  river,  flowing  through  the  midst  of  all 
and  bearing  the  light  of  the  white  noonday 
sky  deep  into  the  bosom  of  the  darkest 
hills,  had  a  soul  as  well  as  a  voice.  In  its 
sparkle  and  ever  -  changing  motion  it  was 
like  a  child  among  its  elders  at  play.  The 
hills  seemed  to  watch  it,  and  the  great 
cloud-heads  as  they  looked  down  between 
the  parting  summits,  and  the  three  tall 
pines,  standing  about  a  young  bird's  flight 
from  each  other  by  the  shore  and  mingling 
their  fitful  crooning  with  the  river's  babble. 
It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  Ruth  Mary, 
sitting  high  above  the  river,  in  the  peaceful 
afternoon,  surrounded  by  the  inanimate  life 
that  to  her  brought  the  fullness  of  compan 
ionship  and  left  no  room  for  vain  cravings ; 
the  shadow  creeping  upward  over  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  the  light  resting  on  her 
girlish  face  and  meek,  smooth  hair.  For 
this  was  during  that  unquestioning  time  of 
content  which  may  not  always  last,  even 
in  a  life  as  safe  and  as  easily  predicted  as 
hers.  But  even  now  this  silent  communion 
was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  one 
of  Tommy's  rivals.  It  was  the  young  man 
whose  comrades  called  him  Kirk,  who  came 
along  the  shore,  stooping  under  the  willow 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        161 

boughs  and  scattering  all  their  shadows 
lightly  traced  on  the  stones  below.  He 
held  his  fishing-rod,  couched  like  a  lance,  in 
one  hand,  and  a  string  of  gleaming  fish  in 
the  other. 

Tommy,  with  practiced  eye,  rapidly 
counted  them  and  saw  with  chagrin  that  he 
was  outnumbered,  but  another  look  satisfied 
him  that  the  stranger's  catch  was  nearly  all 
"white-fish"  instead  of  trout.  He  caressed 
his  own  dappled  beauties  complacently. 

Kirkwood  stopped  and  looked  at  them; 
he  was  evidently  impressed  by  Tommy's 
superior  luck. 

"Those  are  big  fellows,"  he  said;  "did 
you  catch  them?" 

"You  don't  suppose  she  did?"  said 
Tommy,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  towards 
Kuth  Mary. 

Kirkwood  looked  up  and  smiled,  seeing 
the  young  girl  on  her  sunny  perch.  The 
smile  lingered  pleasantly  in  his  eyes  as  he 
seated  himself  on  the  stones,  —  deliberately, 
as  if  he  meant  to  stay. 

Tommy  watched  him  while  he  made  him 
self  comfortable,  taking  from  his  pocket  a 
short  briar-wood  pipe  and  a  bag  of  tobacco, 
leisurely  filling  the  pipe  and  lighting- it  with 


162        A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

a  wax  match  held  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands 
—  apparently  from  habit,  for  there  was  no 
wind.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  in  the 
least  that  his  legs  were  wet  and  that  his 
trout  were  nearly  all  white  -  fish.  He  was 
evidently  a  person  of  happy  resources,  and 
a  joy  -  compelling-  temperament  that  could 
find  virtue  in  white-fish  if  it  couldn't  get 
trout.  He  began  to  talk  to  Tommy,  not 
without  an  amused  consciousness  of  Tom 
my's  silent  partner  on  the  bank  above,  nor 
without  an  occasional  glance  up  at  the  maid 
enly  head  serenely  exalted  in  the  sunlight. 
Nor  did  Ruth  Mary  fail  to  respond,  with 
her  down-bent  looks,  as  simply  and  una 
wares  as  the  clouds  turning  their  bright 
side  to  the  sun. 

Tommy,  on  his  part,  was  stoutly  with 
holding,  in  words,  the  admiration  his  eyes 
could  not  help  showing,  of  the  strange 
fisherman's  tools.  He  cautiously  felt  the 
weight  of  the  ringed  and  polished  rod,  and 
snapped  it  lightly  over  the  water;  he  was 
permitted  to  examine  the  book  of  flies  and 
to  handle  the  reel,  things  in  themselves  fas 
cinating,  but  to  Tommy's  mind  merely  a 
hindrance  and  a  snare  to  the  understand 
ing  in  «the  real  business  of  catching  fish. 


A    CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        163 

Still,  he  admitted,  where  a  man  could  take 
a  whole  day  all  to  himself  like  that,  with 
out  fear  of  being  called  off  at  any  moment 
by  the  women  on  some  frivolous  household 
errand,  he  might  afford  to  potter  with  such 
things.  Tommy  kept  the  conservative  atti 
tude  of  native  experience  and  skill  towards 
foreign  innovation. 

"If  Joe  Enselman  was  here,"  he  said,  "I 
bet  he  could  ketch  more  fish  in  half  'n  hour, 
with  a  pole  like  this  o'  mine  and  a  han'ful 
o'  'hoppers,  than  any  of  you  can  in  a  whole 
week  o'  fishing  with  them  fancy  things." 

"Oh,  Tommy!  "  Ruth  Mary  expostulated, 
looking  distressed. 

"Who  is  this  famous  fisherman?"  Kirk- 
wood  asked,  smiling  at  Tommy's  boast. 

"Oh,  he's  a  feller  I  know.  He's  a 
packer,  and  he  owns  ha'f  o'  father's  stock. 
He  's  goin'  to  marry  our  Sis  soon  's  he  gits 
back  from  Sheep  Mountain,  and  then  he  '11 
be  my  brother."  Tommy  had  been  a  little 
reckless  in  his  desire  for  the  distinction  of 
a  personal  claim  on  the  hero  of  his  boyish 
heart.  He  was  even  conscious  of  this  him 
self,  as  he  glanced  up  at  his  sister. 

Kirkwood's  eyes  involuntarily  followed 
Tommy's.  He  withdrew  them  at  once,  but 


164        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

not  before  he  saw  the  troubled  blush  that 
reddened  the  girl's  averted  face.  It  struck 
him,  though  he  was  not  deeply  versed  in 
blushes,  that  it  was  not  quite  the  expression 
of  happy,  maidenly  consciousness,  when  the 
name  of  a  lover  is  unexpectedly  spoken. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Ruth 
Mary  had  ever  blushed  at  the  name  of  Joe 
Enselman.  She  could  not  understand  why 
it  should  pain  her  to  have  this  young- 
stranger  hear  of  him  in  his  relation  to 
herself. 

Before  her  blush  had  faded,  Kirkwood 
had  dismissed  the  subject  of  Euth  Mary's 
engagement,  with  the  careless  reflection  that 
Enselman  was  probably  not  the  right  man, 
but  that  the  primitive  laws  which  decide 
such  haphazard  unions  doubtless  provided 
the  necessary  hardihood  of  temperament 
wherewith  to  meet  their  exigencies.  She 
was  a  nice  little  girl,  but  possibly  she  was 
not  so  sensitive  as  she  looked. 

His  pipe  had  gone  out,  and  after  relight 
ing  it,  he  showed  Tommy  the  gayly  pic 
tured  paper  match-box  from  Havana,  which 
opened  with  a  spring,  and  disclosed  the 
matches  lying  in  a  little  drawer  within. 
Tommy's  wistful  eyes,  as  he  returned  the 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        165 

box,  prompted  Kirkwood  to  make  prudent 
search  in  his  pockets  for  a  second  box  of 
matches  before  presenting  Tommy  with  the 
one  his  eyes  coveted.  Finding  himself  se 
cure  against  want  in  the  immediate  future, 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  mild  amusement 
of  watching  Tommy  with  his  new  acquisi 
tion. 

Tommy  could  not  resist  lighting  one  of 
the  little  tapers,  which  burned  in  the  sun 
light  with  a  still,  clear  flame  like  a  fairy 
candle.  Then  a  second  one  was  sacrificed. 
By  this  time  the  attraction  had  proved 
strong  enough  to  bring  Ruth  Mary  down 
from  her  high  seat  in  the  sun.  She  looked 
scarcely  less  a  child  than  Tommy,  as,  with 
her  face  close  to  his,  she  watched  the  pale 
flame  flower  wasting  its  waxen  stem.  Then 
she  must  needs  light  one  herself  and  hold 
it,  with  a  little  fixed  smile  on  her  face, 
till  the  flame  crept  down  and  warmed  her 
finger-tips. 

"There,"  she  said,  putting  it  out  with  a 
breath,  "don't  let  us  burn  any  more.  It 's 
too  bad  to  waste  'em  in  the  daylight." 

"We  will  burn  one  more,"  said  Kirk- 
wood,  "not  for  amusement,  but  for  infor 
mation."  And  while  he  whittled  a  piece  of 


166        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

driftwood  into  the  shape  of  a  boat,  he  told 
Ruth  Mary  how  the  Hindoo  maidens  set 
their  lighted  lamps  afloat  at  night  on  the 
Ganges,  and  watch  them  perilously  voyag 
ing,  to  learn,  by  the  fate  of  the  traveling 
flame,  the  safety  of  their  absent  lovers. 

He  told  it  simply  and  gravely,  as  he 
might  have  described  some  fact  in  natural 
history,  for  he  rightly  guessed  that  this 
little  seed  of  sentiment  fell  on  virgin  soil. 
According  to  Tommy,  Ruth  Mary  was  be 
trothed  and  soon  to  be  a  wife,  but  Kirk- 
wood  was  curiously  sure  that  as  yet  she 
knew  not  love,  nor  even  fancy.  Nor  had  he 
any  deliberate  intention  of  tampering  with 
her  inexperience.  He  spoke  of  the  lamps 
on  the  Ganges  because  they  came  into  his 
mind  while  Ruth  Mary  was  bending  over 
the  wasting  match  flame ;  any  hesitation  he 
might  have  had  about  introducing  so  deli 
cate  a  topic  was  conquered  by  an  idle  fancy 
that  he  would  like  to  observe  its  effect  upon 
her  almost  pathetic  innocence. 

While  he  talked,  interrupting  himself  as 
his  whittling  absorbed  him,  but  always  con 
scious  of  her  eyes  upon  his  face,  the  boat 
took  shape  in  his  hands.  Tommy  had 
failed  to  catch  the  connection  between  Hin- 


A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        167 

doo  girls  and  boat  -  making,  but  was  sat 
isfied  with  watching  Kirkwood's  skillful 
fingers,  without  paying  much  heed  to  his 
words.  The  stranger  had,  too,  a  wonder 
ful  knife,  with  tools  concealed  in  its  handle, 
with  one  of  which  he  bored  a  hole  for  the 
mast.  In  the  top  of  the  mast  he  fixed  a  wax 
taper  upright  and  steady  for  the  voyage. 

Kuth  Mary's  cheeks  grew  red,  as  she  sud 
denly  perceived  the  intention  of  Kirkwood's 
whittling. 

"Now,"  he  said,  steadying  the  boat  on  the 
shallow  ripple,  "before  we  light  our  beacon 
you  must  think  of  some  one  you  care  for, 
who  is  away.  Perhaps  Tommy's  friend, 
on  Sheep  Mountain?"  he  ventured  softly, 
glancing  at  Ruth  Mary. 

The  color  in  her  cheeks  deepened,  and 
again  Kirkwood  fancied  it  was  not  a  happy 
confusion  that  covered  her  downcast  face. 

"No?  "  he  questioned,  as  Ruth  Mary  did 
not  speak;  "that  is  too  serious,  perhaps. 
Well,  then,  make  a  little  wish,  and  if  the 
light  is  still  alive  when  the  boat  passes  that 
rock  —  the  flat  one  with  two  stones  on  top 
—  the  wish  will  come  true.  But  you  must 
have  faith,  you  know." 

Ruth  Mary  looked  at  Kirkwood,  the  pic- 


168        A    CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

ture  of  faith  in  her  sweet  seriousness.  His 
heart  smote  him  a  little,  but  he  met  her 
wide-eyed  gaze  with  a  gravity  equal  to  her 
own. 

"I  would  rather  not  wish  for  myself," 
she  said,  "but  I  will  wish  something  for 
you,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"That  is  very  kind  of  you.  Am  I  to 
know  what  it  is  to  be? " 

"Oh  yes.  You  must  tell  me  what  to 
wish." 

"That  is  easily  done,"  said  Kirkwood 
gayly .  "  Wish  that  I  may  come  back  some 
other  day,  and  sit  here  with  you  and  Tommy 
by  the  river." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  Ruth 
Mary  was  blushing  again.  But  she  an 
swered  him  with  a  gentle  courtesy  that  re 
buked  the  foolish  blush:  "That  will  be 
wishing  for  us  all." 

"Shall  we  light  up  then,  and  set  her 
afloat?" 

"I've  made  a  wish,"  shouted  Tommy; 
"I  've  wished  Joe  Enselman  would  bring  me 
an  Injun  pony :  a  good  one  that  won't  buck !  " 

"You  must  keep  your  wish  for  the  next 
trip.  This  ship  is  freighted  deep  enough 
already.  Off  she  goes  then,  and  good  luck 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        169 

to  the  wish,"  said  Kirkwood,  as  the  current 
took  the  boat,  with  the  light  at  its  peak 
burning  clearly,  and  swept  it  away.  The 
pretty  plaything  dipped  and  danced  a  mo 
ment,  while  the  light  wavered  but  still 
lived.  Then  a  breath  of  wind  shook  the 
willows,  and  the  light  was  gone. 

"Now  it's  my  turn,"  Tommy  exclaimed, 
wasting  no  sentiment  on  another's  failure. 
He  rushed  down  the  bank  and  into  the  shal 
low  water  to  catch  the  wishing-boat  before 
it  drifted  away. 

"All  the  same  I  'm  coming  back  again," 
said  Kirkwood,  looking  at  Ruth  Mary. 

Tommy's  wish  fared  no  better  than  his 
sister's,  but  he  bore  up  briskly,  declaring 
it  was  "all  foolishness  anyway,"  and  ac 
cused  Kirkwood  of  having  "just  made  it 
up  for  fun." 

Kirkwood  only  laughed,  and,  ignoring 
Tommy,  said  to  Ruth  Mary,  "The  game  was 
hardly  worth  the  candle,  was  it?" 

"Was  it  a  game?"  she  asked.  "I 
thought  you  meant  it  for  true." 

"Oh  no,"  he  said;  "when  we  try  it  in 
earnest  we  must  find  a  smoother  river  and 
a  stronger  light.  Besides,  you  know,  I  'm 
coming  back." 


170        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Ruth  Mary  kept  her  eyes  upon  his  face, 
still  questioning  his  seriousness,  but  its 
quick  changes  of  expression  baffled  while 
fascinating  her.  She  could  not  have  told 
whether  she  thought  him  handsome  or  not, 
but  she  had  a  desire  to  look  at  him  all  the 
time. 

Suddenly  her  household  duties  recurred 
to  her,  and,  refusing  the  help  of  Kirk- 
wood's  hand,  she  sprang  up  the  bank  and 
hurried  back  to  the  house.  Kirk  wood  could 
see  her  head  above  the  wild-rose  thickets 
as  she  went  along  the  high  path  by  the 
shore.  He  was  more  sure  than  ever  that 
Enselman  was  not  the  right  man. 

At  supper  Ruth  Mary  waited  on  the 
strangers  in  silence,  while  Angy  kept  the 
cats  and  dogs  "corraled,"  as  her  father 
called  it,  in  the  shed,  that  their  impetuous 
appetites  might  not  disturb  the  feast. 

Mr.  Tully  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
talked  with  his  guests  while  they  ate,  and 
Mrs.  Tully,  with  the  little  two-year-old 
in  her  lap,  rocked  in  the  large  rocking- 
chair  and  sighed  apologetically  between  her 
promptings  of  Ruth  Mary's  attendance  on 
the  table. 

Tommy  hung  about  in  a  state  of  complete 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        171 

infatuation  with  the  person  and  conversa 
tion  of  his  former  rival.  He  was  even  be 
ginning  to  waver  in  his  allegiance  to  his 
absent  hero,  especially  as  the  wish  about 
the  Indian  pony  had  not  come  true. 

During  the  family  meal  the  young  men 
sat  outside  in  the  shed-room,  and  smoked 
and  lazily  talked  together.  Their  words 
reached  the  silent  group  at  the  table. 
Kirkwood's  companions  were  deriding  him 
as  a  recreant  sportsman.  He  puffed  his 
short-stemmed  pipe  and  looked  at  them 
tranquilly.  He  was  not  dissatisfied  with 
his  share  of  the  day's  pleasure. 

When  Mr.  Tully  had  finished  his  supper, 
he  took  the  young  men  down  to  the  beach 
to  look  at  his  boat.  Kirkwood  had  pointed 
it  out  to  his  comrades,  where  it  lay  moored 
under  the  bank,  and  ventured  the  opinion 
of  a  boating  man  that  it  had  not  been  built 
in  the  mountains.  But  there  he  had  gen 
eralized  too  rashly. 

"I  built  her  myself,"  said  Mr.  Tully; 
"rip-sawed  the  lumber  up  here.  My  young 
ones  are  as  handy  with  her!"  he  boasted 
cheerfully,  warmed  by  the  admiration  his 
work  called  forth.  " You'd  never  believe, 
to  see  'em  knocking  about  in  her,  they 


172        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

had  n't  the  first  one  of  'em  ever  smelt  salt 
water.  Ruth  Mary  now,  the  oldest  of  'em, 
is  as  much  to  home  in  that  boat  as  she 
is  on  a  hoss  —  and  that's  say  in'  enough. 
She  looks  quiet,  but  she  's  got  as  firm  a 
seat  and  as  light  a  hand  as  any  cow-boy 
that  ever  put  leg  over  a  cayuse." 

Mr.  Tully,  on  being  questioned,  admitted 
willingly  that  he  was  an  Eastern  man,  - 
a  Down-East  lumberman  and  boat-builder. 
He  couldn't  say  just  why  he  'd  come  West. 
Got  restless,  and  his  wife's  health  was  al 
ways  poor  back  there.  He  had  mined  it 
some  and  had  had  considerable  luck,  — 
cleaned  up  several  thousands,  the  summer 
of  '63,  at  Junction  Bar.  Put  it  in  a  saw 
mill  and  got  burned  out.  Then  he  took  up 
this  cattle  range  and  went  into  stock,  in 
partnership  with  a  young  fellow  from  Mon 
tana,  named  Enselman.  They  expected  to 
make  a  good  thing  of  it,  but  it  was  a  long 
ways  from  anywheres;  and  for  months  of 
the  year  they  could  n't  do  any  teaming. 
Had  no  way  out  except  by  the  horseback 
trail.  The  women  found  it  lonesome.  In 
winter  no  team  could  get  up  that  grade  in 
the  canon  they  call  the  "freeze-out,"  even 
if  they  could  cross  the  river,  on  account  of 


A    CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        173 

the  ice ;  and  from  April  to  August  the  river 
was  up  so  you  couldn't  ford. 

All  this  in  the  intervals  of  business,  for 
Mr.  Tully,  in  his  circuitous  way,  was  agree 
ing  to  build  a  boat  for  the  engineers,  after 
the  model  of  his  own.  He  would  have  to 
go  down  to  the  camp  at  Moor's  Bridge  to 
build  it,  he  said,  for  suitable  lumber  could 
not  be  procured  so  far  up  the  river,  except 
at  great  expense.  It  would  take  him  bet 
ter  'n  a  month,  anyhow,  and  he  did  n't  know 
what  his  women-folks  would  say  to  having 
him  so  long  away.  He  would  see  about  it. 

The  four  men  sauntered  up  the  path  from 
the  shore,  Tommy  bringing  up  the  rear 
with  the  little  black-and-tan  terrier.  In 
default  of  a  word  from  his  master,  Tommy 
tried  to  make  friends  with  the  dog,  but 
the  latter,  wide  awake  and  suspicious  after 
dozing  under  the  wagon  all  the  afternoon, 
would  none  of  him.  Possibly  he  divined 
that  Tommy's  attentions  were  not  wholly 
disinterested. 

The  family  assembled  for  the  evening  in 
the  shed -room.  The  women  were  silent, 
for  the  talk  was  confined  to  masculine  top 
ics,  such  as  the  quality  of  the  placer  claims 
up  the  river,  the  timber,  the  hunting,  the 


174        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

progress  and  prospects  of  the  new  railroad. 
Tommy,  keeping  himself  forcibly  awake, 
was  seeing  two  Kirk  woods  where  there  was 
but  one.  The  terrier  had  taken  shelter  be 
tween  Kirkwood's  knees,  after  trying  con 
clusions  with  the  mother  of  the  kittens, 
—  a  cat  of  large  experience  and  a  reserved 
disposition,  with  only  one  ear,  but  in  full 
possession  of  her  faculties. 

Betimes  the  young  men  arose  and  said 
good-night.  Mr.  Tully  was  loath  to  have 
the  evening,  with  its  rare  opportunity  for 
conversation,  brought  to  a  close,  but  he  was 
too  modest  a  host  to  press  his  company 
upon  his  guests.  He  went  with  them  to 
their  bed,  on  the  clean  straw  in  the  barn, 
and  if  good  wishes  could  soften  pillows  the 
travelers  would  have  slept  sumptuously. 
They  did  not  know,  in  fact,  how  they  slept, 
but  woke,  strong  and  joyous  over  the  beauty 
of  the  morning  on  the  hills,  and  the  pros 
pect  of  continuing  their  journey. 

They  parted  from  the  family  at  the  ranch 
with  a  light-hearted  promise  to  stop  again 
on  their  way  down  the  river.  When  they 
would  return  they  were  gayly  uncertain,  — 
it  might  be  ten  days,  it  might  be  two  weeks. 
It  was  a  promise  that  nestled  with  delusive 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        175 

sweetness  in  Kuth  Mary's  thoughts,  as  she 
went  silently  about  her  work.  She  was 
helpful  in  all  ways,  and  very  gentle  with 
the  children,  but  she  lingered  more  hours 
dreaming  by  the  river,  and  often  at  twilight 
she  climbed  the  hill  back  of  the  cabin  and 
sat  there  alone,  her  cheek  in  the  hollow  of 
her  hand,  until  the  great  planes  of  distance 
were  lost,  and  all  the  hills  drew  together  in 
one  dark  profile  against  the  sky. 

Mrs.  Tully  had  been  intending  to  spare 
Ruth  Mary  for  a  journey  to  town,  on  some 
errands  of  a  feminine  nature  which  could 
not  be  intrusted  to  Mr.  Tully 's  larger  but 
less  discriminating  judgment.  Ruth  Mary 
had  never  before  been  known  to  trifle  with 
an  opportunity  of  this  kind.  Her  rides  to 
town  had  been  the  one  excitement  of  her 
life ;  looked  forward  to  with  eagerness  and 
discussed  with  tireless  interest  for  many 
days  afterwards.  But  now  she  hung  back 
with  an  unaccountable  apathy,  and  made 
excuses  for  postponing  the  ride  from  day  to 
day,  until  the  business  became  too  pressing 
to  be  longer  neglected.  She  set  off  one 
morning  at  daybreak,  following  the  horse 
back  trail,  around  the  steep  and  sliding 


176        A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

bluffs  high  above  the  river,  or  across  beds 
of  broken  lava  rock,  —  arrested  avalanches 
from    the    slowly    crumbling    cliffs    which 
crowned   the   bluff,  —  or  picking  her  way 
at  a  soft-footed  pace  through  the  thickets 
of  the  river  bottoms.     In  such  a  low  and 
sheltered  spot,  scarcely  four  feet  above  the 
river,    she   found   the   engineers'    camp,    a 
group  of  white  tents  shining  among  the  wil 
lows.     She   keenly  noted  its  location   and 
surroundings.     The  broken  timbers  of  the 
old  bridge  projected  from  the  bank  a  short 
distance  above  the  camp ;  a  piece  of  weather- 
stained  canvas  stretched  over  them  formed 
a  kind  of  awning  shading  the  rocks  below, 
where  the   Chinese  cook  of   the   camp  sat 
impassively  fishing.     The  camp  had  a  de 
serted  appearance,  for  the  men  were  all  at 
work,  tunneling  the  hill  half  a  mile  lower 
down.     Her  errands  kept  her  so  late  that 
she  was  obliged  to  stay  over  night  at  the 
house  of  a  friend  of  her  father's,  who  owned 
a  fruit  ranch  near  the  town.     They  were 
prosperous,    talkative    people,    who    loudly 
pitied    the   isolation    of   the  family  in   the 
upper  valley. 

Ruth  Mary  reached  home  about  noon  the 
next   day,   tired   and   several   shades  more 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        177 

deeply  sunburned,  to  find  that  she  had 
passed  the  engineers,  without  knowing  it, 
on  their  way  down  the  river  by  the  wagon 
road  on  the  other  side.  They  had  stopped 
over  night  at  the  ranch  and  made  an  early 
start  that  morning.  Ruth  Mary  was 
obliged  to  listen  to  enthusiastic  reminis 
cences,  from  each  member  of  the  family,  of 
the  visit  she  had  missed. 

This  was  the  last  social  event  of  the  year. 
The  willow  copses  turned  yellow  and  leaf- 
bare;  the  scarlet  hips  of  the  rosebushes 
looked  as  if  tiny  finger-tips  had  left  their 
prints  upon  them.  The  wreaths  of  wild 
clematis  faded  ashen  gray,  and  were  scat 
tered  by  the  winds.  The  wood  dove's  coo 
ing  no  longer  sounded  at  twilight  in  the 
leafless  thickets.  They  had  gone  down  the 
river  and  the  wild  duck  with  them. 

But  the  voice  of  the  river,  rising  with 
the  autumn  rains,  was  loud  on  the  bar;  the 
sky  was  hung  with  clouds  that  hid  the  hill 
tops  or  trailed  their  ragged  pennants  below 
the  summits.  The  mist  lay  cold  on  the 
river;  it  rose  with  the  sun,  dissolving  in 
soft  haze  that  dulled  the  sunshine,  and  at 
night,  descending,  shrouded  the  dark,  hoarse 
water  without  stilling  its  lament.  Then 


178        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

the  first  snow  fell,  and  ghostly  companies 
of  deer  came  out  upon  the  hills,  or  filed 
silently  down  the  draws  of  the  canons  at 
morning  and  evening.  The  cattle  had  come 
down  from  the  mountain  pastures,  and  at 
night  congregated  about  the  buildings  with 
deep  breathings  and  sighings;  the  river 
murmured  in  its  fretted  channel ;  now  and 
then  the  yelp  of  a  hungry  coyote  sounded 
from  the  hills. 

The  young  men  had  said,  among  their 
light  and  pleasant  sayings,  that  they  would 
like  to  come  up  again  to  the  hills  when  the 
snow  fell,  and  get  a  shot  at  the  deer ;  but 
they  did  not  come,  though  often  Euth  Mary 
stood  on  the  bank  and  looked  across  the 
swollen  ford,  and  listened  for  the  echo  of 
wheels  among  the  hills. 

About  the  1st  of  November  Mr.  Tully 
went  down  to  the  camp  at  Moor's  Bridge 
to  build  the  engineers'  boat.  The  women 
were  now  alone  at  the  ranch,  but  Joe  En- 
selman's  return  was  daily  expected.  Mr. 
Tully,  always  cheerful,  had  been  confident 
that  he  would  be  home  by  the  5th. 

The  5th  of  November  and  the  10th 
passed,  but  Enselman  had  not  returned. 
On  the  12th,  in  the  midst  of  a  heavy  fall  of 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        179 

snow,  his  pack  animals  were  driven  in  by 
another  man,  a  stranger  to  the  women  at 
the  ranch,  who  said  that  Enselman  had 
changed  his  mind  suddenly  about  coming 
home  that  fall,  and  decided  to  go  to  Mon 
tana  and  "prove  up"  on  his  ranch  there. 

Mr.  Tully's  work  was  finished  before  the 
second  week  of  December.  On  his  return 
to  the  ranch  he  brought  with  him  a  great 
brown  paper  bundle,  which  the  children 
opened  by  the  cabin  fire  on  the  joyous 
evening  of  his  arrival.  There  were  back 
numbers  of  the  illustrated  magazines  and 
papers,  stray  copies  of  which  now  and  then 
had  drifted  into  the  hands  of  the  voracious 
young  readers  in  the  cabin.  There  were 
a  few  novels,  selected  by  Kirkwood  from 
the  camp  library  with  especial  reference 
to  Ruth  Mary.  For  Tommy  there  was  a 
duplicate  of  the  wonderful  pocket-knife  that 
he  had  envied  Kirkwood.  Angy  was  re 
membered  with  a  little  music  -  box,  which 
played  "Willie,  we  have  missed  you  "  with 
a  plaintive  iteration  that  brought  the  sen 
sitive  tears  to  Ruth  Mary's  eyes;  and  for 
Ruth  Mary  herself  there  was  a  lace  pin  of 
hammered  gold. 

"  He  said  it  must  be  your  wedding  pres- 


180        A    CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

ent  from  him,  as  you  'd  be  married  likely 
before  he  saw  you  again,"  Mr.  Tully  said, 
with  innocent  pride  in  the  gift  with  which 
his  daughter  had  been  honored. 

"Who  said  that?"  Kuth  Mary  asked. 

"Why,  Mr.  Kirkwood  said  it.  He  's 
the  boss  one  of  the  whole  lot  to  my  thinkin'. 
He  's  got  that  way  with  him  some  folks  has ! 
We  had  some  real  good  talks,  evenings, 
down  on  the  rocks  under  the  old  bridge,  — 
I  told  him  about  you  and  Enselman  " 

"Father,  I  wish  you  hadn't  done  that." 
The  protest  in  Euth  Mary's  voice  was 
stronger  than  her  words. 

She  had  become  slightly  pale  when  Kirk- 
wood's  name  was  mentioned,  but  now,  as 
she  held  out  the  box  with  the  trinket  in  it, 
a  deep  blush  covered  her  face. 

"  I  cannot  take  it,  father.  Not  with  that 
message.  He  can  wait  till  I  am  married 
before  he  sends  me  his  wedding  present." 

To  her  father's  amazement,  she  burst  into 
tears  and  went  out  into  the  shed-room,  leav 
ing  Kirkwood' s  ill-timed  gift  in  his  hands. 

"What  in  all  conscience'  sake 's  got  into 
her?"  he  demanded  of  his  wife,  "to  take 
offense  at  a  little  thing  like  that!  She 
did  n't  use  to  be  so  techy." 


A   CLOUD   ON   THE  MOUNTAIN.         181 

Mrs.  Tully  nodded  her  head  at  him 
sagely  and  glanced  at  the  children,  a  hint 
that  she  understood  Ruth  Mary's  state  of 
mind,  but  could  not  explain  before  them. 

At  bedtime,  the  father  and  mother  being- 
alone  together,  Mrs.  Tully  revealed  the 
cause  of  her  daughter's  sensitiveness,  ac 
cording  to  her  theory  of  it.  "  She  's  put 
out  because  Joe  Enselman  chose  to  wait 
till  spring  before  marry  in',  and  went  off 
to  Montany  instead  of  comin'  home  as  he 
said  he  would." 

"Sho,  sho!"  said  Mr.  Tully.  "That 
don't  seem  like  Ruth  Mary.  She  ain't  in 
any  such  a  hurry  as  all  that  comes  to.  I  've 
had  it  on  my  mind  lately  that  she  took  it  a 
little  too  easy." 

"You'll  see,"  said  the  mother.  "She 
ain't  in  any  hurry,  but  she  likes  him  to  be. 
She  feels  's  if  he  thought  more  of  money- 
makin'  than  he  does  of  her.  She 's  like 
all  girls.  She  won't  use  her  reason  and  see 
it 's  all  for  her  in  the  end  he  's  doin'  it." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  her  'twas  my 
plan,  his  goin'  to  Montany  this  fall?  He 
wouldn't  listen  to  it  nohow  then.  He'd 
rather  lose  his  ranch  than  wait  any  longer 
for  Sis,  so  he  said ;  but  I  guess  he  's  seen  the 


182        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

sense  of  what  I  told  him.  'Ruth  Mary  ain't 
a-goin'  to  run  away,'  I  says,  'even  if  ye  don't 
prove  up  on  her  this  fall. '  You  ought  to  'a' 
told  her,  mother,  'twas  my  proposition." 

"I  told  her  that  and  more  too.  I  told 
her  it  showed  he  'd  make  a  good  provider. 
She  looked  at  me  solemn  as  a  graven  image 
all  the  time  I  was  talkin'  and  not  a  word 
out  of  her.  But  that 's  Ruth  Mary.  I 
never  said  the  child  was  sullen,  but  she  is 
just  like  your  sister  Ruth  —  the  more  she 
feels,  the  less  she  talks." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Tully,  "that's  all 
right,  if  that 's  it.  That  '11  all  straighten 
out  with  time.  It  was  natural  perhaps  she 
should  fire  up  at  the  talk  about  marry  in'  if 
she  felt  the  bridegroom  was  hangin'  back. 
Why,  Joe,  —  he  'd  eat  the  dirt  she  treads 
on,  if  he  couldn't  make  her  like  him  no 
other  way!  He's  most  too  foolish  about 
her,  to  my  thinkm'.  That 's  what  took  me 
so  by  surprise  when  word  come  back  he  'd 
gone  to  Montany  after  all;  I  did  n't  expect 
anything  so  sensible  of  him." 

"'Twas  a  reg'lar  man's  piece  o'  work 
anyhow,"  said  Mrs.  Tully  disconsolately. 
"And  you  '11  be  sorry  for  it,  I  'm  afraid. 
I  never  knew  any  good  come  of  puttin'  off 


A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        183 

a  marriage,  where  everything  was  suitable, 
just  for  a  few  hundred  acres  of  wild  land, 
more  or  less." 

"No  use  your  worry  in',"  said  Mr.  Tully. 
"Young  folks  always  has  their  little  trou 
bles  before  they  settle  down  —  besides,  what 
sort  of  a  marriage  would  it  be  if  you  or  I 
could  make  it  or  break  it?"  But  he  bore 
himself  with  a  deprecating  tenderness  to 
wards  his  daughter,  in  whose  affairs  he  had 
meddled,  perhaps  disastrously,  as  his  better 
half  feared. 

The  winters  of  Idaho  are  not  long,  even 
in  the  higher  valleys.  Close  upon  the  cold 
footsteps  of  the  retreating  snows  trooped 
the  first  wild  flowers.  The  sun  seemed  to 
laugh  in  the  cloudless  sky.  The  children 
were  let  loose  on  the  hills;  their  voices 
echoed  the  river's  chime.  Its  waters,  ris 
ing  with  the  melting  snows,  no  longer  bab 
bled  childishly  on  their  way;  they  shouted, 
and  brawled,  and  tumbled  over  the  bar, 
rolling  huge  pine  trunks  along  as  if  they 
were  sticks  of  kindling  wood. 

One  cool  May  evening,  Ruth  Mary, 
climbing  the  path  from  the  beach,  saw  there 
was  a  strange  horse  and  two  pack  animals 


184        A    CLOUD    ON   THE  MOUNTAIN. 

in  the  corral.  She  did  not  stop  to  look  at 
them,  but,  quickly  guessing  who  their  owner 
must  be,  she  went  on  to  the  house,  her 
knees  weak  and  trembling,  her  heart  beat 
ing  heavily.  Her  father  met  her  at  the 
door  and  detained  her  outside.  She  was 
prepared  for  his  announcement.  She  knew 
that  Joe  Enselman  had  returned,  and  that 
the  time  was  come  for  her  to  prove  her  new 
resolve,  born  of  the  winter's  silent  struggle. 

"I  thought  I  'd  better  have  a  few  words 
with  you,  Ruthie,  before  you  see  him  —  to 
prepare  your  mind.  Set  down  here."  Mr. 
Tully  took  his  daughter's  hands  in  his  own 
and  held  them  while  he  talked. 

"You  thought  it  was  queer  Joe  stayed 
away  so  long,  didn't  you?"  Ruth  Mary 
opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  no  words 
came.  "Well,  I  did,"  said  the  father. 
"Though  it  was  my  plan  first  off.  I  might 
'a'  know'd  it  was  something  more  'n  busi 
ness  that  kep'  him.  Joe  's  had  an  accident. 
It  happened  to  him  just  about  the  time  he 
meant  to  'a'  started  for  home  last  fall.  It 
broke  him  all  up,  —  made  him  feel  like  he 
didn't  want  to  see  any  of  us  just  then.  He 
was  goin'  along  a  trail  through  the  woods 
one  dark  night;  he  never  knew  what 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        185 

stunned  him;  must  have  been  a  twig  or 
something  struck  him  in  the  eye;  he  was 
giddy  and  crazy-like  for  a  spell;  his  horse 
took  him  home.  Well,  he  ain't  got  but 
one  eye  left,  Joe  ain't.  There,  Sis,  I  knew 
you  'd  feel  bad.  But  he  's  well.  It 's  hurt 
his  looks  some,  but  what's  looks!  We 
ain't  any  of  us  got  any  to  brag  on.  Joe 
had  some  hopes  at  first  he  'd  git  to  seem' 
again  out  of  the  eye  that  was  hurt,  and  so 
he  sent  home  his  animals  and  put  out  for 
Salt  Lake  to  show  it  to  a  doctor  there ;  but 
it  wan' t  any  use.  The  eye's  gone;  and  it 
doos  seem  as  if  for  the  time  bein'  some  of 
Joe's  grit  had  gone  with  it.  He  went  up 
to  Montany  and  tended  to  his  business,  but 
it  was  all  like  a  dumb  show  and  no  heart  in 
it.  It 's  cut  him  pretty  deep,  through  his 
bein'  alone  so  long,  perhaps,  and  thinkin' 
about  how  you  'd  feel.  And  then  he  's  pes 
tered  in  his  mind  about  marryin'.  He  feels 
he 's  got  no  claim  to  you  now.  Says  it 
ain't  fair  to  ask  a  young  girl  that 's  likely 
to  have  plenty  good  chances  to  tie  up  to 
what 's  left  of  him.  I  wanted  you  should 
know  about  this  before  you  go  inside.  It 
might  hurt  him  some  to  see  a  change  in 
your  face  when  you  look  at  him  first.  As 


186        A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

to  his  givin'  you  your  word  back,  that 
you  '11  settle  between  yourselves ;  but,  how 
ever  you  fix  it,  I  guess  you  '11  make  it  as 
easy  as  you  can  for  Joe.  I  don'  know  as 
ever  I  see  a  big  strappin'  fellow  so  put 
down." 

Mr.  Tully  had  waited,  between  his  short 
and  troubled  sentences,  for  some  response 
from  Ruth  Mary,  but  she  was  still  silent. 
Her  hands  felt  cold  in  his.  As  he  released 
them  she  leaned  suddenly  forward  and  hid 
her  face  against  his  shoulder.  She  shivered 
and  her  breast  heaved,  but  she  was  not 
weeping. 

"There,  there!"  said  Mr.  Tully,  strok 
ing  her  head  clumsily  with  his  large  hand. 
"I  've  made  a  botch  of  it.  I  'd  ought  to  'a' 
let  your  mother  told  ye." 

She  pressed  closer  to  him,  and  wrapped 
her  arms  around  him  without  speaking. 

"I  expect  I  better  go  in  now,"  he  said 
gently,  putting  her  away  from  him.  "Will 
you  come  along  o'  me,  or  do  you  want  to 
git  a  little  quieter  first?  " 

"You  go  in,"  Ruth  Mary  whispered. 
"I '11  come  soon." 

It  was  not  long  before  she  followed  her 
father  into  the  house.  No  one  was  sur- 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        187 

prised  to  see  her  white  and  tremulous. 
She  seemed  to  know  where  Enselman  sat 
without  raising  her  eyes;  neither  did  he 
venture  to  look  at  her,  as  she  came  to  him, 
and  stooping  forward,  laid  her  little  cold 
hands  on  his. 

"I  'm  glad  you  've  come  back,"  she  said. 
Then  sinking  down  suddenly  on  the  floor  at 
his  feet,  she  threw  her  apron  over  her  head 
and  sobbed  aloud. 

The  father  and  mother  wept  too.  Joe 
sat  still,  with  a  great  and  bitter  longing  in 
his  smitten  countenance,  but  did  not  dare 
to  comfort  her. 

"Pick  her  up,  Joe,"  said  Mr.  Tully. 
"Take  hold  of  her,  man,  and  show  her 
you  've  got  a  whole  heart  if  you  ain't  got 
but  one  eye." 

It  was  understood,  as  Euth  Mary  meant 
that  it  should  be,  without  more  words,  that 
Enselman 's  misfortune  would  make  no  dif 
ference  in  their  old  relation.  The  differ 
ence  it  had  made  in  that  new  resolve  born 
of  the  winter's  struggle  she  told  to  no  one; 
for  to  no  one  had  she  confided  her  resolve. 

Joe  stayed  two  weeks  at  the  ranch,  and 
was  comforted  into  a  semblance  of  his 


188        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

former  hardy  cheerfulness.  But  Ruth 
Mary  knew  that  he  was  not  happy.  One 
evening  he  asked  her  to  go  with  him  down 
the  high  shore  path.  He  told  her  that  he 
was  going  to  town  the  next  day  on  business 
that  might  keep  him  absent  about  a  fort 
night,  and  entreated  her  to  think  well  of 
her  promise  to  him,  for  that  on  his  return 
he  should  expect  its  fulfillment.  For  God's 
sake  he  begged  her  to  let  no  pity  for  his 
misfortune  blind  her  to  the  true  nature  of 
her  feeling  for  him.  He  held  her  close  to 
his  heart  and  kissed  her  many  times.  Did 
she  love  him  so  —  and  so?  —  he  asked. 
Ruth  Mary,  trembling,  said  she  did  not 
know.  How  could  she  help  knowing?  he 
demanded  passionately.  Had  her  thoughts 
been  with  him  all  winter,  as  his  had  been 
with  her?  Had  she  looked  up  the  river 
towards  the  hills  where  he  was  staying  so 
long  and  wished  for  him,  as  he  had  gazed 
southward  into  the  valleys  many  and  many 
a  day,  longing  for  the  sweet  blue  eyes  of 
his  little  girl  so  far  away? 

Alas,  Ruth  Mary!  She  gazed  almost 
wildly  into  his  stricken  face,  distorted  by 
the  anguish  of  his  great  love  and  his  great 
dread.  She  wished  that  she  were  dead. 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        189 

There  seemed  no  other  way  out  of  her 
trouble. 

The  next  morning,  before  she  was  dressed, 
Enselman  rode  away,  and  her  father  went 
with  him. 

She  was  alone,  now,  in  the  midst  of  the 
hills  she  loved  —  alone  as  she  would  never 
be  again.  She  foresaw  that  she  would  not 
have  the  strength  to  lay  that  last  blow  upon 
her  faithful  old  friend,  —  the  crushing  blow 
that  perfect  truth  demanded.  Her  tender 
ness  was  greater  than  her  truth. 

The  river  was  now  swollen  to  its  greatest 
volume.  Its  voice,  that  had  been  the  bab 
ble  of  a  child  and  the  tumult  of  a  boy,  was 
now  deep  and  heavy  like  the  chest  notes  of 
a  strong  man.  Instead  of  the  sparkling 
ripple  on  the  bar,  there  was  a  continuous 
roar  of  yellow,  turbid  water  that  could  be 
heard  a  mile  away.  There  had  been  no 
fording  for  six  weeks,  nor  would  there  be 
again  until  late  summer.  The  useless  boat 
lay  in  the  shallow  wash  that  filled  the  deep 
cut  among  the  willows.  The  white  sand 
beach  was  gone ;  heavy  waves  swirled  past 
the  banks  and  sent  their  eddies  up  into  the 
channels  of  the  hills  to  meet  the  streams  of 


190        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

melted  snow.  Thunder  clouds  chased  each 
other  about  the  mountains,  or  met  in  sud 
den  downfalls  of  rain. 

One  sultry  noon,  when  the  sun  had  come 
out  hot  on  the  hills  after  a  wet  morning, 
Kuth  Mary,  at  work  in  the  shed  -  room, 
heard  a  sound  that  drove  the  color  from  her 
cheek.  She  ran  out  and  looked  up  the 
river,  listening  to  a  distant  but  ever  increas 
ing  roar  which  could  be  heard  above  the 
incessant  laboring  of  the  waters  over  the 
bar.  Above  the  summit  of  Sheep  Moun 
tain,  as  it  seemed,  a  huge  turban-shaped 
cloud  had  rolled  itself  up,  and  from  its 
central  folds  was  discharging  gray  sheets 
of  water  that  veered  and  slanted  with  the 
wind,  but  were  always  distinct  in  their 
density  against  the  rain  -  charged  atmos 
phere.  How  far  away  the  floods  were  de 
scending  she  did  not  know;  but  that  they 
were  coming  in  a  huge  wall  of  water,  over 
taking  and  swallowing  up  the  river's  cur 
rent,  she  was  as  sure  as  that  she  had  been 
bred  in  the  mountains. 

Bare-headed,  bare -armed  as  she  was, 
without  a  backward  look,  she  ran  down  the 
hill  to  the  place  where  the  boat  was  moored. 
Tommy  was  there,  sitting  in  the  boat  and 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE   MOUNTAIN.        191 

making  the  shallow  water  splash  as  he 
rocked  from  side  to  side. 

ki  Get  out,  Tommy,  and  let  me  have  her, 
quick!  "  Kuth  Mary  called  to  him. 

Tommy  looked  at  her  stolidly  and  kept 
on  rocking.  "What  you  want  with  her?" 
he  asked. 

"Come  out,  for  mercy's  sake!  Don't 
you  hear  it?  There  's  a  cloud-burst  on  the 
mountain." 

Tommy  listened.  He  did  hear  it,  but 
he  did  not  stir.  "It  '11  be  a  bully  thing 
to  see  when  it  conies.  What  you  doin'? 
You  aci:  like  you  was  crazy,"  he  exclaimed, 
as  Ruth  Mary  waded  through  the  water  and 
got  into  the  boat. 

"Tommy,  you  will  kill  me  if  you  stop  to 
talk!  Don't  you  know  the  camp  at  Moor's 
Bridge  ?  Go  home  and  tell  mother  I  've 
gone  to  give  'em  warning." 

Tommy  was  instantly  sobered.  "I  'm 
going  with  you,"  he  said.  "You  can't 
handle  her  alone  in  that  current." 

Ruth  Mary,  wild  with  the  delay,  every 
second  of  which  might  be  the  price  of  pre 
cious  lives,  seized  Tommy  in  her  arms, 
hugged  him  close  and  kissed  him,  and  by 
main  strength  rolled  him  out  into  the  water. 


192        A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

He  grasped  the  gunwale  with  both  hands. 
"You  're  going  to  be  drowned,"  he  shrieked, 
as  if  already  she  were  far  away.  She  pushed 
off  his  hands  and  shot  out  into  the  current. 
"Don't  cry,  Tommy,  I  '11  get  there  some 
how,"  she  called  back  to  him.  She  could 
see  nothing  for  the  first  few  minutes  of  her 
journey  but  his  little  wet,  dismal  figure 
toiling,  sobbing,  up  the  hill.  It  hurt  her 
to  have  had  to  be  rough  with  him.  But  all 
the  while  she  sat  upright  with  her  eyes  on 
the  current,  plying  her  paddle  right  and 
left,  as  rocks  and  driftwood  and  eddies 
were  passed.  She  heard  it  coining,  that 
distant  roar  from  the  hills,  and  prayed  with 
beating  heart  that  the  wild  current  might 
carry  her  faster  —  faster  —  past  the  drag 
gled  willow  copses  —  past  the  beds  of  black 
lava  rock,  and  the  bluffs  with  their  patches 
of  green  moss  livid  in  the  sunshine  —  hurl 
ing  along,  past  glimpses  of  the  well-known 
trail  she  had  followed  dreamily  on  those 
peaceful  rides  she  might  never  take  again. 
The  thought  did  not  trouble  her,  only  the 
fear  that  she  might  be  overtaken  before  she 
reached  the  camp.  For  the  waters  were 
coming  —  or  was  it  the  wind  that  brought 
that  dread  sound  so  near!  She  dared  not 


A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        193' 

look  round  lest  she  should  see,  through  the 
gates  of  the  caiion,  the  black  lifted  head  of 
the  great  wave,  devouring  the  river  behind 
her.  How  it  would  come  swooping  down, 
between  those  high  narrow  walls  of  rock, 
her  heart  stood  still  to  think  of.  If  the 
hills  would  but  open  and  let  it  loose,  over 
the  empty  pastures  —  if  the  river  would  only 
hurry,  hurry,  hurry!  She  whispered  the 
word  to  herself  with  frantic  repetition,  and 
the  oncoming  roar  behind  her  answered  her 
whisper  of  fear  with  its  awful  intoning. 

She  trembled  with  joy  as  the  canon  walls 
lowered  and  fell  apart,  and  she  saw  the 
blessed  plains,  the  low  green  flats  and  the 
willows,  and  the  white  tents  of  the  camp, 
safe  in  the  sunshine.  Now  if  she  be  given 
but  one  moment's  grace  to  swing  into  the 
bank !  The  roar  behind  her  made  her  faint 
as  she  listened.  For  the  first  time  she 
turned  and  looked  back,  and  the  cry  of  her 
despair  went  up  and  was  lost,  as  boat  and 
message  and  messenger  were  lost,  —  gone 
utterly,  gorged  at  one  leap  by  the  senseless 
flood. 

At  half  past  five  o'clock  that  afternoon 
the  men  of  the  camp  filed  out  of  the  tun- 


194        A    CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

nel,  along  the  new  road-bed,  with  the  low 
sunlight  in  their  faces.  It  was  "  Saturday 
night,"  and  the  whole  force  was  in  good 
humor.  As  they  tramped  gayly  along, 
tools  and  instruments  glinting  in  the  sun, 
word  went  down  the  line  that  something 
unusual  had  been  going  on  by  the  river. 
There  seemed  to  have  been  a  wild  uprising 
of  its  waters  since  they  saw  it  last.  Then 
a  shout  from  those  ahead  proclaimed  the 
disaster  at  the  bridge.  The  Chinese  cook, 
crouched  among  the  rocks  high  up  under 
the  bluff,  where  he  had  fled  for  safety  when 
he  heard  the  waters  coming,  rushed  down 
to  them  with  wild  wavings  and  gabblings, 
to  tell  them  of  a  catastrophe  that  was  best 
described  by  its  results.  A  few  provisions 
were  left  them,  stored  in  a  magazine  under 
a  rock  on  the  hillside.  They  cooked  their 
supper  with  the  splinters  of  the  ruined 
blacksmith's  hut.  After  supper,  in  the 
clear,  pink  evening  light,  they  wandered 
about  on  the  slippery  rocks,  seeking  what 
ever  fragments  of  their  camp  equipage  the 
flood  might  have  left  them.  Everything 
had  been  swept  away,  and  tons  of  mud  and 
gravel  covered  the  little  green  meadow 
where  their  tents  had  stood.  KirkAvood, 


A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.        195 

straying  on  ahead  of  his  comrades,  came  to 
the  rocks  below  the  bridge  timbers,  from 
which  the  awning  had  been  torn  away. 
The  wet  rocks  glistened  in  the  light,  but 
there  was  a  whiter  gleam  which  caught  his 
eye.  He  stooped  and  crawled  under  the 
timbers  anchored  in  the  bank,  until  he  came 
to  the  spot  of  whiteness.  Was  this  that 
fair  young  girl  from  the  hills,  dragged 
here  by  the  waters  in  their  cruel  orgy,  and 
then  hidden  by  them  as  if  in  shame  of  their 
work?  Kirkwood  recognized  the  simple 
features,  the  meek  eyes,  wide  open  in  the 
searching  light.  The  mud  that  filled  her 
garments  had  spared  the  pure  young  face. 
Kirkwood  gazed  into  it  reverently,  but  the 
passionate  sacrifice,  the  useless  warning, 
were  sealed  from  him.  She  could  not  tell 
him  why  she  was  there. 

The  three  young  men  watched  in  turn, 
that  night,  by  the  little  motionless  heap 
covered  with  Kirkwood' s  coat.  Kirkwood 
was  very  sad  about  Ruth  Mary,  yet  he  slept 
when  his  watch  was  over. 

In  the  morning  they  nailed  together  some 
boards  into  the  shape  of  a  long  box.  There 
was  not  a  boat  left  on  the  river;  fording 
was  impossible.  They  could  only  take  her 


196        A    CLOUD    ON   THE  MOUNTAIN. 

home  by  the  trail.  So  once  more  Ruth 
Mary  traveled  that  winding  path,  high  in 
the  sunlight  or  low  in  the  shade  of  the 
shore.  A  log  of  driftwood,  left  by  the 
great  wave,  slung  on  one  side  of  a  mule's 
pack  saddle,  balanced  the  rude  coffin  on 
the  other.  No  one  meeting  the  three  engi 
neers  and  their  pack-mule  filing  down  the 
trail  would  have  known  that  they  were  a 
funeral  procession;  but  they  were  heavy- 
hearted  as  they  rode  along,  and  Kirkwood 
would  fain  it  had  not  been  his  part  to  ride 
ahead  and  prepare  the  family  at  the  ranch 
for  their  child's  coming. 

The  mother,  with  Tommy  and  Angy  hid 
ing  their  faces  against  her,  stood  on  the  hill 
and  watched  for  it,  and  broke  into  cries  as 
the  mule  with  its  burden  came  in  sight. 

Kirkwood  walked  with  them  down  the 
hill  to  meet  it.  His  comrades  dismounted, 
and  the  three  young  men,  with  heads  un 
covered,  carried  the  coffin  over  the  hill  and 
set  it  down  in  the  shed  -  room.  Then 
Tommy,  in  a  burst  of  childish  grief,  made 
them  know  that  this  piteous  sacrifice  had 
been  for  them. 

The  tunnel  made  its  way  through  the 
hill,  the  sinuous  road-bed  wound  up  the 


A   CLOUD    ON  THE  MOUNTAIN.         197 

valley,  new  camps  were  built  along  its 
course;  but  when  the  young  men  sat  to 
gether  of  an  evening  and  looked  at  the 
hills  in  the  strange  pink  light,  a  spell  of 
quietness  rested  upon  them  which  no  one 
tried  to  explain. 

The  railroad  has  been  built  these  two 
years.  Every  summer  brings  tourists  up 
into  the  Bear  River  valley.  They  look 
with  delight  upon  the  mountain  stream, 
bounding  down  between  the  hills  with  the 
brightness  of  the  morning  on  its  breast. 

"There  should  be  an  idyl  or  a  legend 
belonging  to  it,"  a  pretty,  dark-eyed  girl 
with  a  Boston  accent  said  to  Kirkwood, 
one  moonlight  evening  late  in  summer 
when  the  river  was  low,  as  they  drifted 
softly  down  between  its  dim  shores.  "Poor 
little  Bear  River !  did  nothing  human  ever 
happen  near  you  to  give  you  a  right  to  a 
prettier  name?" 

The  river  did  riot  answer  as  it  rippled 
over  the  bar,  nor  did  Kirkwood  speak  for 
it;  but  the  wood  dove's  melancholy  tremolo 
came  from  the  misty  willows  by  the  shore, 
and  in  some  suddenly  illumined  place  in  his 
memory  he  saw  Ruth  Mary,  sitting  on  the 


198         A   CLOUD   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

high  bank  in  the  peaceful  afternoon,  the 
sunshine  resting  on  her  smooth,  fair  hair, 
the  shadow  lending  its  softness  to  her  shy, 
down-bent  face. 

The  pity  of  it,  when  he  thinks  of  it  some 
times,  seems  to  him  more  than  he  can  bear. 
Yet  if  Kuth  Mary  had  still  been  there  at 
the  ranch  on  the  hills,  she  would  have  been, 
to  him,  only  "that  nice  little  girl  of  Tully's 
who  married  the  one-eyed  packer." 


THE  RAPTURE  OF  HETTY. 

THE  dance  was  set  for  Christmas  night 
at  Walling' s,  a  horse-ranch  where  there 
were  women,  situated  in  a  high,  watered 
valley  shut  in  by  foothills,  sixteen  miles 
from  the  nearest  town.  The  cabin  with  its 
roof  of  shakes,  the  sheds  and  corrals,  can 
be  seen  from  any  divide  between  Packer's 
ferry  and  the  Payette. 

The  "boys "had  been  generally  invited, 
with  one  exception  to  the  usual  company. 
The  youngest  of  the  sons  of  Basset,  a  pas 
toral  and  nomadic  house,  was  socially  under 
a  cloud,  on  the  charge  of  having  been  "too 
handy  with  the  frying-pan  brand." 

The  charge  could  not  be  substantiated, 
but  the  boy's  name  had  been  roughly  han 
dled  in  those  wide,  loosely  defined  circles  of 
the  range  where  the  force  of  private  judg 
ment  makes  up  for»the  weakness  of  the  law, 
in  dealing  with  crimes  that  are  difficult  of 
detection  and  uncertain  of  punishment.  He 
that  has  obliterated  his  neighbor's  brand 


200  THE  RAPTURE   OF  HETTY. 

or  misapplied  his  own,  is  held  as,  in  the 
age  of  tribal  government  and  ownership, 
was  held  the  remover  of  his  neighbor's  land 
marks.  A  word  goes  forth  against  him 
potent  as  the  levitical  curse,  and  all  the 
people  say  amen. 

As  society's  first  public  and  pointed  re 
jection  of  him  the  slight  had  rankled  with 
the  son  of  Basset,  and  grievously  it  wore 
on  him  that  Hetty  Rhodes  was  going,  with 
the  man  who  had  been  his  earliest  and  most 
persistent  accuser:  Hetty,  prettiest  of  all 
the  bunch  -  grass  belles,  who  never  re 
proached  nor  quarreled,  but  judged  people 
with  her  smile  and  let  them  go.  He  had 
not  complained,  though  he  had  her  promise, 
—  one  of  her  promises,  —  nor  asked  a  hear 
ing  in  his  own  defense.  The  sons  of  Basset 
were  many  and  poor ;  their  stock  had  dwin 
dled  upon  the  range;  her  men-folk  con 
demned  him,  and  Hetty  believed,  or  seemed 
to  believe,  as  the  others. 

Had  she  forgotten  the  night  when  two 
men's  horses  stood  at  her  father's  fence,  — 
the  Basset  boy's  and  that  of  him  who  was 
afterward  his  accuser;  and  the  other's  horse 
was  unhitched  when  the  evening  was  but 
half  spent,  and  furiously  ridden  away,  while 


THE  RAPTURE   OF  HETTY.  201 

the  Basset  boy's  stood  at  the  rails  till  close 
upon  midnight?  Had  the  coincidence  es 
caped  her  that  from  this  night,  of  one  man's 
rage  and  another's  bliss,  the  ugly  charge 
had  dated?  Of  these  things  a  girl  may  not 
testify. 

They  met  in  town  on  the  Saturday  before 
the  dance,  Hetty  buying  her  dancing-shoes 
at  the  back  of  the  store,  where  the  shoe-cases 
framed  in  a  snug  little  alcove  for  the  exhibi 
tion  of  a  "fit."  The  boy,  in  his  belled 
spurs  and  "snaps"  of  goat-hide,  was  loun 
ging  disconsolate  and  sulky  against  one  of 
the  front  counters;  she  wore  a  striped  ul 
ster,  an  enchanted  garment  his  arm  had 
pressed,  and  a  pink  crocheted  tam-o'-shanter 
cocked  bewitchingly  over  her  dark  eyes. 

Her  hair  was  ruffled,  her  cheeks  were 
red,  with  the  wind  she  had  faced  for  two 
hours  on  the  spring-seat  of  her  father's 
"dead  axe"  wagon.  Critical  feminine  eyes 
might  have  found  her  a  trifle  blowzy;  the 
sick-hearted  Basset  boy  looked  once,  —  he 
dared  not  look  again. 

Hetty  coquetted  with  her  partner  in  the 
shoe  bargain,  a  curly -headed  young  Hebrew, 
who  flattered  her  familiarly  and  talked  as  if 
he  had  known  her  from  a  child,  but  always 


202  THE  RAPTURE   OF  HETTY. 

with  an  eye  to  business.  She  stood,  hold 
ing  back  her  skirts  and  rocking  her  instep 
from  right  to  left,  while  she  considered  the 
effect  of  the  new  style;  patent-leather  fox- 
ings  and  tan -cloth  tops,  and  heels  that  came 
under  the  middle  of  her  foot,  and  narrow 
toes  with  tips  of  stamped  leather ;  —  but 
what  a  price!  More  than  a  third  of  her 
chicken -money  gone  for  that  one  fancy's 
satisfaction.  But  who  can  know  the  joy  of 
a  really  distinguished  choice  in  shoe-leather 
like  one  who  in  her  childhood  has  trotted 
barefoot  through  the  sage-brush  and  associ 
ated  shoes  only  with  cold  weather  or  going 
to  town  ?  The  Basset  boy  tried  to  fix  his 
strained  attention  upon  anything  rather 
than  upon  that  tone  of  high  jocosity  between 
Hetty  and  the  shiny -haired  clerk.  He  tried 
to  summon  his  own  self-respect  and  leave 
the  place. 

What  was  the  tax,  he  inquired,  on  those 
neck-handkerchiefs  ;  and  he  pointed  with 
the  loaded  butt  of  his  braided  leather  quirt 
to  a  row  of  dainty  silk  mufflers,  signaling 
custom  from  a  cord  stretched  above  the 
gentlemen 's-furnishing  counter. 

The  clerk  explained  that  the  goods  in 
question  were  first  class,  all  silk,  brocaded, 


THE  RAPTURE   OF  HETTY.  203 

and  of  an  extra  size.  Plainly  he  expected 
that  a  casual  mention  of  the  price  would 
cool  the  inexperienced  customer's  curiosity, 
especially  as  the  colors  displayed  in  the 
handkerchiefs  were  not  those  commonly 
affected  by  the  cow-boy  cult.  The  Basset 
boy  threw  down  his  last  half-eagle  and  care 
lessly  called  for  the  one  with  a  blue  border. 
The  delicate  "baby  blue"  attracted  him 
by  its  perishability,  its  suggestion  of  impos 
sible  refinements  beyond  the  soilure  and 
dust  of  his  own  grimy  circumstances.  Yet 
he  pocketed  his  purchase  as  though  it  had 
been  any  common  thing,  not  to  show  his 
pride  in  it  before  the  patronizing  sales 
man. 

He  waited  foolishly  for  Hetty,  not  know 
ing  if  she  would  even  speak  to  him.  When 
she  came  at  last,  loitering  down  the  shop, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  gay  Christmas  coun 
ters  and  her  arms  filled  with  bundles,  he 
silently  fell  in  behind  her  and  followed  her 
to  her  father's  wagon,  where  he  helped  her 
unload  her  purchases. 

"Been  buying  out  the  store?"  he  opened 
the  conversation. 

"Buying  more  than  father  '11  want  to  pay 
for,"  she  drawled,  glancing  at  him  sweetly. 


204      THE  RAPTURE  OF  HETTY. 

Those  entoiling  looks  of  Hetty's  dark-lashed 
eyes  had  grown  to  a  habit  with  her;  even 
now  the  little  Jewish  salesman  was  smiling 
over  his  brief  portion  in  them.  Her  own 
coolness  made  her  careless,  as  children  are 
in  playing  with  fire. 

"Here's  some  Christmas  the  old  man 
won't  have  to  pay  for."  A  soft  paper  par 
cel  was  crushed  into  her  hand. 

"  Who  is  going  to  pay  for  it,  I  'd  like  to 
know?  If  it 's  some  of  your  doings,  Jim 
Basset,  I  can't  take  it  —  so  there !  " 

She  thrust  the  package  back  upon  him. 
He  tore  off  the  wrapper  and  let  the  wind 
carry  his  rejected  token  into  the  trampled 
mud  and  slush  of  the  street. 

Hetty  screamed  and  pounced  to  the  res 
cue.  "What  a  shame!  It 's  a  beauty  of  a 
handkerchief.  It  must  have  cost  a  lot  of 
money.  I  shan't  let  you  use  it  so." 

She  shook  it,  and  wiped  away  the  spots 
from  its  delicate  sheen,  and  folded  it  into 
its  folds  again. 

"/  don't  want  the  thing."  He  spurned 
it  fiercely. 

"Then  give  it  to  some  one  else."  She 
endeavored  coquettishly  to  force  it  into  his 
hands,  or  into  the  pockets  of  his  coat.  He 


THE  RAPTURE   OF  HETTY.  205 

could  not  withstand  her  thrilling  little  lib 
erties  in  the  face  of  all  the  street. 

"I'll  wear  it  Monday  night,"  said  he. 
"May  be  you  think  I  won't  be  there?"  he 
added  hoarsely,  for  he  had  noted  her  look 
of  surprise,  mingled  with  an  infuriating 
touch  of  pity.  "You  kin  bank  on  it  I'D 
be  there." 

Hetty  toyed  with  the  thought  that  after 
all  it  might  be  better  that  she  should  not  go 
to  the  dance.  There  might  be  trouble,  for 
certainly  Jim  Basset  had  looked  as  if  he 
meant  it  when  he  had  said  he  would  be 
there;  and  Hetty  knew  the  temper  of  the 
company,  the  male  portion  of  it,  too  well  to 
doubt  what  their  attitude  would  be  toward 
an  inhibited  guest  who  disputed  the  popular  I 
verdict,  and  claimed  social  privileges  which  j 
it  had  been  agreed  that  he  had  forfeited,  j 
But  it  was  never  really  in  her  mind  to  deny 
herself  the  excitement  of  going.  She  and 
her  escort  were  among  the  first  couples  to 
cross  the  snowy  pastures  stretching  between 
her  father's  claim  and  the  lights  of  the 
lonely  horse-ranch. 

It  was  a  cloudy  night,  the  air  soft,  chill, 
and  spring-like.  Snow  had  fallen  early  and 
frozen  upon  the  ground;  the  stockmen  wel- 


206      THE  RAPTURE  OF  HETTY. 

corned  the  "chinook  wind"  as  the  promise 
of  a  break  in  the  hard  weather.  Shadows 
came  out  and  played  upon  the  pale  slopes, 
as  the  riders  rose  and  dropped  past  one  long 
swell  and  another  of  dim  country  falling 
away  like  a  ghostly  land  seeking  a  ghostly 
sea.  And  often  Hetty  looked  back,  fear 
ing,  yet  half  hoping,  that  the  interdicted 
one  might  be  on  his  way,  among  the  dusky, 
straggling  shapes  behind. 

The  company  was  not  large,  nor,  up  to 
nine  o'clock,  particularly  merry.  The  wo 
men  were  engaged  in  cooking  supper,  or 
were  above  in  the  roof -room  brushing  out 
their  crimps  by  the  light  of  an  unshaded 
kerosene  lamp,  placed  on  the  pine  wash- 
stand  which  did  duty  as  a  dressing-table. 
The  men's  voices  came  jarringly  through 
the  loose  boards  of  the  floor  from  below. 

About  that  hour  arrived  the  unbidden 
guest,  and  like  the  others  he  had  brought 
his  "gun."  He  was  stopped  at  the  door 
and  told  that  he  could  not  come  in  among 
the  girls  to  make  trouble.  He  denied  that 
he  had  come  with  any  such  intention. 
There  were  persons  present,  —  he  mentioned 
no  names,  —  who  were  no  more  eligible, 
socially  speaking,  than  himself,  and  he 


THE  RAPTURE   OF  HETTY.  207 

ranked  himself  low  in  saying  so;  where 
such  as  these  could  be  admitted,  he  pro 
posed  to  show  that  he  could.  He  offered, 
in  evidence  of  his  good  faith  and  peace 
able  intentions,  to  give  up  his  gun ;  but  on 
the  condition  that  he  be  allowed  one  dance 
with  the  partner  of  his  choosing,  regardless 
of  her  previous  engagements. 

This  unprecedented  proposal  was  referred 
to  the  girls,  who  were  charmed  with  its  au 
dacity.  But  none  of  them  spoke  up  for 
the  outcast  till  Hetty  said  she  could  not 
think  what  they  were  all  afraid  of;  a  dozen 
to  one,  and  that  one  without  his  weapon! 
Then  the  other  girls  chimed  in  and  added 
their  timid  suffrages. 

There  may  have  been  some  twinges  of 
disappointment,  there  could  hardly  have 
been  surprise,  when  the  black  sheep  di 
rected  his  choice  without  a  look  elsewhere 
to  Hetty.  She  stood  up,  smiling  but  rather 
pale,  and  he  rushed  her  to  the  head  of  the 
room,  securing  the  most  conspicuous  place 
before  his  rival,  who  with  his  partner  took 
the  place  of  second  couple  opposite. 

"Keep  right  on!  "  the  fiddler  chanted,  in 
sonorous  cadence  to  the  music,  as  the  last 
figure  of  the  set  ended  with  "Promenade 


208  THE  RAPTURE   OF  HETTY. 

all  I"'  He  swung  into  the  air  of  the  first 
figure  again,  smiling,  with  his  cheek  upon 
his  instrument  and  his  eyes  upon  the  floor. 
Hetty  fancied  that  his  smile  meant  more 
than  merely  the  artist's  pleasure  in  the  joy 
he  evokes. 

"Keep  your  places!"  he  shouted  again, 
after  the  "Promenade  all!"  a  second  time 
had  raised  the  dust  and  made  the  lamps 
flare,  and  lighted  with  smiles  of  sympathy 
the  rugged  faces  of  the  elders  ranged  against 
the  walls.  The  side  couples  dropped  off 
exhausted,  but  the  tops  held  the  floor,  and 
neither  of  the  men  was  smiling. 

The  whimsical  fiddler  invented  new  fig 
ures,  which  he  '*tealled  off  "  in  time  to  his 
music,  to  vary  the  monotony  of  a  quadrille 
with  two  couples  missing. 

The  opposite  girl  was  laughing  hysteri 
cally;  she  could  no  longer  dance  nor  stand. 
The  rival  gentleman  looked  about  him  for 
another  partner.  One  girl  jumped  up,  then, 
hesitating,  sat  down  again.  The  music 
passed  smoothly  into  a  waltz,  and  Hetty 
and  her  bad  boy  kept  the  floor,  regardless 
of  shouts  and  protests  warning  the  tres 
passer  that  his  time  was  up  and  the  game 
in  other  hands. 


THE   RAPTURE    OF  HETTY.  209 

Three  times  they  circled  the  room;  they 
looked  neither  to  right  nor  left ;  their  eyes 
were  upon  each  other.  The  men  were  all 
on  their  feet,  the  music  playing  madly.  A 
group  of  half -scared  girls  was  huddled, 
giggling  and  whispering,  near  the  door  of 
the  dimly  lighted  shed  -  room.  Into  the 
midst  of  them  Hetty's  partner  plunged,  j 
with  his  breathless,  smiling  dancer  in  his 
arms,  passed  into  the  dim  outer  place  to  the 
door  where  his  horse  stood  saddled,  and  1 
they  were  gone. 

They  crossed  the  little  valley  known  as 
Seven  Pines ;  they  crashed  through  the  thin 
ice  of  the  creek;  they  rode  double  sixteen 
miles  before  daybreak,  Hetty  wrapped  in 
her  lover's  "slicker,"  with  the  blue-bor-  | 
dered  handkerchief,  her  only  wedding-gift, 
tied  over  her  blowing  hair. 


THE  WATCHMAN. 
I. 

THE  far-Eastern  company  was  counting 
its  Western  acres  under  water  contracts. 
The  acres  were  in  first  crops,  waiting  for 
the  water.  The  water  was  dallying  down 
its  untried  channel,  searching  the  new  dry 
earth-banks,  seeping,  prying,  and  insinu 
ating  sly,  minute  forces  which  multiplied 
and  insisted  tremendously  the  moment  a 
rift  had  been  made.  And  the  orders  were 
to  "watch"  and  "puddle;  "  and  the  watch 
men  were  as  other  men,  and  some  of  them 
doubtless  remembered  they  were  working 
for  a  company. 

Travis,  the  black-eyed  young  lumberman 
from  the  upper  Columbia,  had  been  sent 
down  with  a  special  word  from  the  manager 
commending  him  as  a  tried  hand,  equal  to 
any  post  or  service.  The  ditch  superintend 
ent  was  looking  for  such  a  man.  He  gave 
him  those  five  crucial  miles  between  the 
head-gates  and  Glenn's  Ferry,  the  notorious 


THE   WATCHMAN.  211 

beat  that  had  sifted  Finlayson's  force  with 
out  yet  finding  a  man  who  could  keep  the 
banks.  Some  said  it  was  the  Arc-light 
saloon  at  Glenn's  Ferry;  some  said  it  was 
the  pretty  girl  at  Lark's. 

Whatever  it  was,  Travis  raged  at  it  in 
the  silent  hours  of  his  one-man  watch;  and 
the  report  had  gone  up  the  line  now,  three 
times  since  he  had  taken  hold,  of  breaks 
on  his  division.  And  the  engineer  would 
by  no  means  "weaken"  on  a  question  of 
the  work,  nor  did  the  loyal  watchman  ask 
that  any  one  should  weaken,  to  spare  him. 
He  was  all  eyes  and  ears;  he  watched  by 
daylight,  he  listened  by  dark,  and  the 
sounds  that  he  heard  in  his  dreams  were 
sounds  of  water  searching  the  banks,  swirl 
ing  and  sinking  into  holes,  or  of  mud  sub 
siding  with  a  wretched  flop  into  the  insidi 
ous  current. 

It  was  a  queer  country  along  the  new 
ditch  below  the  head-gates;  as  old  and  sun- 
bleached  and  bony  as  the  stony  valleys  of 
Arabia  Petrea;  all  but  that  strip  of  green 
that  led  the  eye  to  where  the  river  wan 
dered,  and  that  warm  brown  strip  of  sown 
land  extending  field  by  field  below  the 
ditch. 


212  THE    WATCHMAN. 

Lark's  ranch  was  the  first  one  below  the 
head -gates,  lying  between  the  river  and 
the  ditch,  an  old  homesteader's  claim,  sub- 
irrigated  by  means  of  rude  dams  ponding 
the  natural  sloughs.  The  worn-out  land, 
never  drained,  was  foul  and  sour,  lapsing 
into  swamps,  the  black  alkali  oozing  and 
spreading  from  pools  in  its  boggy  pastures. 

A  few  pioneer  fruit-trees  still  bloomed 
and  bore,  undiscouraged  by  neglect,  and 
cast  homelike  shadows  on  the  weedy  grass 
around  the  cabin  and  sheds  that  slouched 
at  all  angles,  with  nails  starting  and  shin 
gles  warping  in  the  sun. 

Similar  weather-stains  and  odd  kicks  and 
bulges  the  old  rancher's  person  exhibited, 
when  he  came  out  to  sun  himself  of  a  rimy 
morning,  when  cobwebs  glittered  on  the 
short,  late  grass,  and  his  joints  reminded 
him  that  the  rains  were  coming.  And  up 
and  down  the  cow-trail  below  the  ditch, 
morning  and  evening,  went  his  dairy-herd 
to  pasture ;  and  after  them  loitered  Nancy, 
on  a  strawberry  pony  with  milk  white  mane 
and  tail. 

The  lights  and  shadows  chased  her  in 
and  out  among  the  willows  and  fleecy  cot 
ton  woods  and  tall  swamp-grasses ;  but  Tra- 


THE   WATCHMAN.  213 

vis  rode  in  the  glare,  on  the  high  ditch- 
bank,  and,  although  they  passed  each  other 
daily,  he  had  never  had  a  good  look  at  the 
"pretty  girl  at  Lark's."  But  one  morn 
ing  the  white-faced  heifer  broke  away  and 
bolted  up  the  ditch-bank,  and  in  a  cloud  of 
sun-smitten  dust  Nancy  followed,  a  figure 
of  virginal  wrath  with  scarlet  cheeks  and 
wind-blown  hair.  Kerning  her  pony  on  the 
narrow  bank,  she  called  across  to  Travis  in 
a  voice  as  clear  and  fresh  as  her  colors :  — 

"Head  her  off,  can't  you?  What  are 
you  about!"  This  last  to  the  pony,  who 
was  behaving  "mean." 

"Kide  to  the  bridge  and  head  her  this 
way.  I  can  drive  her  up  the  bank,"  Travis 
responded. 

Nancy  obeyed  him,  and  waited  at  the 
bridge  while  he  endeavored  to  persuade  the 
heifer  of  the  error  of  her  ways.  The  heifer 
was  not  easily  persuaded,  and  Travis  was 
wet  to  the  waist  before  he  had  got  her  out ; 
but  he  lost  nothing  of  the  bright  figure 
guarding  the  bridge,  a  slender  shape  all 
pink  and  blue  and  dark  blue,  with  hair  like 
the  sun  on  brown  water,  and  a  perfect  seat, 
and  a  ringing  voice  calling  thanks  and 
bewildering  encouragement  to  her  ally  in 


214  THE   WATCHMAN. 

the  stream.  And  this  was  old  Solomon's 
daughter ! 

But  "Oh,  my  Nancy!"  the  boys  would 
groan,  with  excess  of  appreciation  beyond 
words,  and  for  that  Nancy  heeded  them 
not:  and  now  Travis  knew  that  the  boys 
were  right. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much!"  her  clear 
voice  lilted,  as  the  discomfited  runaway 
dashed  down  the  bank  to  the  path  she  had 
forsaken.  "I'm  ever  so  sorry  she  dug  all 
those  bad  tracks  in  the  ditch.  Will  they 
do  any  harm? " 

Travis  assured  her  that  nothing  did  harm 
Jf  only  it  were  known  in  time. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  it,  anyhow,  — 
the  ditch?  Is  n't  it  built  right?  " 

"The  ditch  is  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw," 
Travis  responded,  with  all  the  warmth  of 
his  unrequited  devotion  to  that  faithless 
piece  of  engineering.  "All  new  ditches 
need  watching  till  the  banks  get  settled." 

"Well,  I  should  say  that  you  watched! 
Don't  you  ever  stir  off  that  bank?  " 

"I  eat  and  sleep  sometimes." 

"You  must  have  a  pretty  dry  camp  up 
above.  Wouldn't  you  like  some  milk  once 
in  a  while?  " 


THE   WATCHMAN.  215 

"Thanks;  I  never  happened  to  fall  in 
with  the  milkman  on  my  beat." 

"  We  have  lots  to  spare,  and  buttermilk 
too,  if  you  're  not  too  proud  to  come  for  it. 
The  others  used  to." 

"I  guess  I  don't  quite  catch  on." 

"The  other  watchmen,  the  boys  who  were 
here  before  you." 

"Oh,"  said  Travis  coldly. 

"Well,  any  time  you  choose  to  come 
down  I  '11  save  some  for  you,"  said  the  girl, 
as  if  that  matter  were  settled. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  rather  off  my  beat," 
Travis  hesitated,  "but  I  'm  just  as  much 
obliged." 

Nancy  straightened  herself  haughtily. 
"Oh,  it  is  nothing  to  be  obliged  for,  if  you 
don't  care  to  come." 

"I  did  not  say  I  didn't  care,"  Travis 
protested;  but  she  was  gone.  The  dust 
flew,  and  presently  her  dark  blue  skirt  and 
the  pony's  silver  tail  flashed  past  the  wil 
lows  in  the  low  grounds. 

"I  shall  never  see  her  again,"  he 
mourned.  "So  much  for  those  other  fel 
lows  spoiling  her  idea  of  a  watchman's 
duty.  Of  course  she  thought  I  could  come 
if  I  wanted  to.  Did  she  ask  them,  I  won 
der?" 


216  THE   WATCHMAN. 

Nancy  was  piqued,  but  not  resentful. 
The  more  he  did  not  come,  as  evening  after 
evening  smiled  upon  the  level  land;  the 
more  she  thought  of  Travis,  alone  in  his 
dusty  camp,  alone  on  his  blinding  beat;  the 
more  she  dwelt  upon  the  singularity  and 
constancy  of  his  refusal,  the  more  she  re- 
,  spected  him  for  it. 

So  one  day  he  did  see  her  again.  She 
was  sitting  on  the  bridge  planks,  leaning 
forward,  her  arms  in  her  lap,  her  hat 
tipped  back,  a  star  of  white  sunlight  touch 
ing  her  forehead.  She  lifted  her  head 
when  she  heard  him  coming  and  put  her 
hand  over  her  eyes,  as  if  she  were  dizzy 
with  watching  the  water. 

"How  's  the  ditch?  "  she  called  in  a  voice 
of  sweetest  cheer.  She  was  on  her  feet 
now,  and  he  saw  how  entrancing  she  was, 
in  a  blue  muslin  frock  and  a  broad  white 
hat  with  a  wreath  of  pink  roses  bestrewing 
the  tilted  brim.  Had  they  got  company  at 
the  ranch?  was  his  jealous  reflection. 

"How's  the  ditch  behaving  itself  these 
days?"  she  repeated. 

"Much  as  usual,  thank  you,"  Travis 
beamed  from  his  saddle. 

"Breaking,  as  usual?" 


THE   WATCHMAN.  217 

"Yes;  it  broke  night  before  last." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  it's  much  of  a 
ditch,  anyhow.  I  would  n't  fret  about  it 
if  I  was  you.  Don't  you  think  I  'm  very 
good-natured,  after  your  snubbing  me  so? 
Here  I  've  brought  you  a  basket  of  apples, 
seeing  you  would  n't  spare  time  from  your 
old  ditch  to  come  for  them  yourself.  That 
in  the  napkin  is  a  little  pat  of  fresh  but 
ter."  She  lifted  the  grape-leaves  that  cov 
ered  the  basket.  "I  thought  it  might  taste 
good  in  camp." 

"Good!  Well,  I  rather  guess  it  will 
taste  good!  See  here,  I  can't  ever  thank 
you  for  this  —  for  bringing  it  yourself." 
He  had  few  words,  but  his  looks  were  mod 
erately  expressive. 

Nancy  blushed  with  pleasure.  "Well,  I 
had  to  —  when  folks  are  so  wrapped  up  in 
their  business.  There,  with  Susan's  com 
pliments!  Susan  's  the  heifer  you  rounded 
up  for  me  in  the  ditch.  I  know  she  made 
you  a  lot  of  work,  tracking  holes  in  your 
banks  you  're  so  fussy  about.  Do  you 
really  think  it  is  a  good  ditch?" 

"I  am  positive  it  is." 

"Then    if    anything    goes    wrong   down  l< 
here  they  will  lay  the  blame  on  you?" 


218  THE   WATCHMAN. 

"They  are  welcome  to.  That's  what  I 
am  here  for." 

Nancy  openly  acknowledged  her  approval 
of  a  man  that  stood  right  up  to  his  work 
and  would  take  no  odds  of  any  one. 

"The  other  boys  were  always  complain 
ing  and  saying  it  was  the  ditch.  But 
there,  I  know  it  is  mean  of  me  to  talk 
about  them." 

"I  guess  it  won't  go  any  further,"  said 
Travis  dryly. 

"Well,  I  hope  not.  They  were  good 
boys  enough,  but  pretty  trifling  watchmen, 
I  shouldn't  wonder." 

Travis  had  nothing  to  say  to  this,  but  he 
made  a  mental  note  or  two. 

"When  will  you  give  me  a  chance  to  re 
turn  your  basket?  " 

"Why,  any  time;  there  's  no  hurry  about 
the  basket.  Have  you  any  regular  times?  " 

He  looked  away,  dissembling  his  joy  in 
the  question,  and  answered  as  if  he  were 
making  an  official  report,  — 

"I  leave  camp  at  six,  patrol  the  line  to 
the  ferry  and  back,  lay  off  an  hour,  and 
down  again  at  eleven.  Back  in  camp  at 
three,  and  two  hours  for  dinner.  On  again 
at  five,  and  back  in  camp  at  nine.  I  pass 


THE  WATCHMAN.  219 

this  bridge,  for  instance,  at  seven  and  nine 
of  a  morning1,  twelve  and  two  afternoons, 
and  six  and  eight  in  the  evening." 

"Six  and  eight,"  Nancy  mused,  with  a 
slight  increase  of  color.  "Well,  I  can  stop 
some  evening  after  cow-time,  I  suppose; 
but  it  isn't  any  matter  about  the  basket." 

Six  evenings,  going  and  coming,  Travis 
delayed  in  passing  the  bridge,  on  the  watch 
for  Nancy;  six  times  he  filled  the  basket 
with  such  late  field-flowers  as  he  could  find, 
and  she  never  came.  On  the  seventh  even 
ing  his  heart  announced  her,  from  as  far  off 
as  his  eyes  beheld  her.  This  time  she  was 
in  white,  without  her  hat,  and  she  wore  a 
blue  ribbon  in  her  gold-brown  braids,  —  a 
blue  ribbon  in  her  braids,  and  a  red,  red 
rose  in  either  cheek ;  and  her  colors,  and  the 
colors  of  the  sky,  floated  like  flowers  on  the 
placid  water. 

"Well,  where  is  the  basket,  then?"  she 
merrily  demanded. 

"I  left  it  behind,  for  luck." 
"  For  luck  ?     What  sort  of  luck  ?  " 
"Six  times  I  brought  it,  and  you  were 
never  here ;  so  to-night  I  just  kicked  it  into 
the  tent  and  came  off  without  it.     It  seems 
to  have  been  about  the  right  thing  to  do." 


220  THE  WATCHMAN. 

"What,  my  basket!" 

"Your  basket.  And  it  was  filled  with 
wild  flowers,  the  prettiest  I  could  find. 
It 's  your  own  fault  for  not  coming  before." 

"I  never  set  any  day  that  I  know  of.  I 
have  been  up  to  town." 

Travis  was  not  pleased  to  hear  it. 

"Yes;  and  I  saw  your  company's  mana 
ger.  What  a  young  man  he  is !  I  had  no 
idea  managers  were  ever  young.  And  styl 
ish  —  my !  I  'm  sure  I  hope  he  '11  know 
me  when  he  sees  me  again,"  she  added,  col 
oring  and  dropping  her  eyes. 

Travis  grimly  expressed  the  opinion  that 
he  probably  would.  Nancy  continued  to 
strike  the  wrong  note  with  cruel  precision ; 
she  could  not  have  done  better  had  she  cal 
culated  her  words ;  and  all  the  while  look 
ing  as  innocent  as  the  shining  water  under 
her  feet,  —  and  that  last  time  she  had  been 
so  kind! 

And  the  ditch  was  as  provoking  as  Nancy, 
rewarding  his  devotion  with  breaks  that 
defied  all  explanation.  It  was  not  possible 
that  the  patience  of  the  management  could 
hold  out  much  longer;  and  when  he  should 
have  been  dismissed  in  disgrace  from  his 
post,  Nancy  would  lightly  class  him  as  an- 


THE   WATCHMAN.  221 

other  of  those  "good  boys  enough,  but  tri 
fling  watchmen." 

II. 

The  first  dry  moon  was  just  past  the 
full.  At  nine  o'clock  the  sky  began  to 
whiten  above  the  long,  bare  ridge  of  the 
side -hill  cut.  At  half  past,  the  edge  of 
the  moon's  disk  clove  the  sky-line,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  ridge  crept  down  among  the 
willows  and  tule-beds  of  the  bottom.  At 
ten  the  shadow  had  shrunk;  it  lay  black  on 
the  ditch-bank,  but  the  whispering  treetops 
below  were  turning  in  silver  light  that 
flickered  along  the  cow-path  and  caught  the 
still  eye  of  a  dark,  shallow  pool  among  the 
tules. 

Nancy  had  chosen  this  night  for  a  stroll 
to  the  bridge,  where  Travis  might  be  ex 
pected  to  pass,  any  time  between  eight 
o'clock  and  rnoonrise.  Instead  of  Travis 
came  a  man  whom  she  recognized  as  one 
of  the  watchmen  from  a  lower  division.  He 
saluted  her,  after  the  custom  of  the  coun 
try,  claiming  nothing  on  personal  grounds 
but  the  privilege  to  look  rather  hard  at  the 
girlish  figure  silhouetted  against  the  water. 
It  was  yet  early  enough  for  sky -gleams  to 


222  THE  WATCHMAN. 

linger  on  still  pools,  or  to  color  the  wim- 
pling  reaches  of  the  ditch. 

Nancy  was  disappointed;  she  had  not 
come  out  to  see  a  strange  rider  passing  on 
Travis 's  gray  horse.  Her  little  plans  were 
disconcerted.  She  had  waited  for  what  she 
considered  a  dignified  interval,  before  seem 
ing  to  take  cognizance  of  her  watchman's 
hours;  now  it  appeared  that  the  part  of 
dignity  might  be  overdone.  Had  Travis 
been  superseded  on  his  beat?  She  was 
conscious  of  missing  him  already.  Her 
walk  home,  through  the  confidential  wil 
lows,  struck  a  chill  of  loneliness  which  the 
aspect  of  the  house  did  not  dispel.  All 
was  as  dark  and  empty  as  she  had  left  it. 
Was  her  father  still  at  work  at  those  tedious 
dams?  This  had  been  his  given  reason  for 
frequent  absences  of  late,  after  his  usual 
working  hours ;  though  why  he  should  choose 
the  dark  nights  for  mending  his  dams  Nancy 
had  not  asked  herself.  To-night  she  wanted 
him,  or  somebody,  to  drive  away  this  queer 
new  ache  that  made  the  moonlight  too  large 
and  still  for  one  little  girl  to  wander  in 
alone. 

She  searched  for  him.  He  was  in  none  of 
the  expected  places;  the  dank  fields  were 


THE   WATCHMAN.  223 

as  empty  as  the  house.  She  turned  back 
to  the  ditch ;  from  its  high  bank  she  could 
see  farther  into  the  shadowy  places  of  the 
bottom. 

Travis,  meanwhile,  had  been  leisurely 
pursuing  his  evening  beat.  He  had  over 
taken  one  of  his  fellow-watchmen,  011  foot, 
walking  to  town,  had  lent  him  his  horse  for 
the  last  two  miles  to  camp,  and  invited  him 
to  help  himself  to  what  he  could  find  for 
supper,  without  waiting  for  his  host. 

"It  is  a  still  night,"  said  Travis;  "I'll 
mog  along  slowly  up  the  ditch,  and  put  in 
a  little  extra  listening:  it  's  at  night  the 
water  talks." 

Long  after  the  rider  had  passed  on,  the 
tread  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  heard,  dimin 
ishing  on  the  hard-tramped  bank;  a  loos 
ened  stone  rattled  down  and  splashed  into 
the  water;  the  wind  rustled  in  the  tule-beds; 
then  all  surface  sounds  ceased,  and  the  only 
talker  was  the  ditch,  chuckling  and  daw 
dling  like  an  idle  child  on  its  errand,  which 
it  could  not  be  persuaded  to  take  seriously, 
to  the  desert  lands. 

Travis  came  to  the  ticklish  spot  near 
the  bridge,  and  stopped  to  listen.  Here  the 
ditch  cut  through  beds  of  clean  sand,  where 


224  THE   WATCHMAN. 

the  water  might  sink  and  work  back  into 
the  old  ground,  the  sand  holding  it  like  a 
sponge,  till  all  the  bottom  became  a  bog, 
and  the  banks  sank  in  one  wide-spread, 
general  wash-out.  The  first  symptom  of 
such  deep  -  seated  trouble  would  be  the 
water's  motion  in  the  ditch,  —  whirling 
round  and  round  as  if  boring  a  hole  in  the 
bottom. 

Travis  laid  his  ear  to  the  current,  for  he 
could  judge  of  the  water's  movement  by  the 
sound.  All  seemed  right  at  the  bridge,  but 
far  up  the  ditch  he  was  aware  of  a  new 
demonstration.  He  listened  awhile,  and 
then  walked  on  with  long,  light  steps  and 
gained  upon  the  sound,  which  persisted, 
defining  itself  as  a  muffled  churning  at 
marked  intervals,  with  now  and  then  a 
wait  between.  The  prodding  was  of  some 
tool  at  work  under  water,  at  the  ditch- 
bank. 

He  crossed  to  the  upper  side,  and  moved 
forward  cautiously  along  the  ridge,  crouch 
ing  that  his  figure  might  not  be  seen 
against  the  sky. 

Nancy  had  gone  up  the  cow-trail,  past 
the  low  grounds,  and  was  just  climbing  the 
bank  when  a  dark  shape,  of  man  or  beast, 


THE  WATCHMAN.  225 

crashed  down  the  opposite  slope  and  shot 
like  a  slide  of  rock  into  the  water. 

A  half-choked  cry  followed  the  plunge, 
then  ugly  sounds  of  a  scuffle  under  the 
ditch-bank  —  men  breathing  hard,  sighing 
and  snorting;  and  somebody  gasped  as  if 
he  were  being  held  down  till  his  breath  was 
gone. 

"Get  in  there,  you  old  muskrat!  You 
shall  stop  your  own  breaks  if  it  takes  your 
cursed  carcass  to  do  it!  Now  then,  have 
you  got  your  breath?" 

Nancy  stayed  only  to  hear  a  voice  that 
was  her  father's,  convulsed  with  terror  and 
the  chill  of  his  repeated  duckings,  begging 
to  be  spared  the  anguish  of  drowning  by 
night  in  three  feet  of  ditch-water. 

"Mr.  Travis,"  she  screamed,  "you  let 
my  father  be,  whatever  you  are  doing  to 
him!  Father,  you  come  right  home  and 
get  on  dry  clothes !  " 

Travis  was  as  much  amazed  as  if  Diana 
with  the  moon  on  her  forehead  had  appeared 
on  the  ditch-bank  to  take  old  Solomon  Lark 
under  her  maiden  protection;  but  no  less 
he  stuck  to  his  prize  of  war. 

"Your  father  hasn't  time  to  change  his 

o 

clothes  just  yet,  Miss  Nancy;  he  's  got 
some  work  to  do  first." 


226  THE   WATCHMAN. 

"Who  are  you,  to  be  setting  my  father 
to  work?  Let  go  of  him  this  minute!  You 
are  drowning  him;  you  are  choking  him 
to  death!"  sobbed  the  frantic  girl.  The 
shadow  fortunately  withheld  the  details  of 
her  father's  condition,  but  she  had  seen 
enough.  Had  Travis  been  drinking?  Was 
the  man  bereft  of  his  senses  ? 

He  was  quite  himself  apparently,  —  hide 
ously  cool,  yet  roused,  and  his  voice  cut  like 
steel. 

"You  had  better  go  home,  Miss  Nancy, 
and  light  a  fire  and  warm  a  blanket  for 
your  father's  bed.  He  '11  be  pretty  cold 
before  he  gets  through  with  this  night's 
work." 

After  this  cruel  speech  he  took  no  more 
notice  of  Nancy,  but  leaped  upon  the  ditch- 
bank  and  began  hurling  earth  in  great 
shovelfuls,  patting  the  old  man  on  the  head 
with  his  cold  tool  whenever  he  tried  to 
clamber  up  after  him. 

"You'd  better  not  try  that,"  he  roared 
in  a  terrible  voice  that  wounded  Nancy 
like  a  blow.  "  Get  in  there,  now !  t  Puddle, 
puddle,  or  I  '11  have  you  buried  to  the  ears 
in  five  minutes !  " 

It  was  shocking,  hideous,  like  a  horrible 


THE   WATCHMAN.  227 

dream.  The  earth  rattled  down  all  about 
Solomon,  and  frequently  upon  him;  the 
water  was  thick  with  mud,  and  the  wretched 
old  man  tramped  and  puddled  for  dear  life, 
helping  to  mend  the  hole  which  he  had  se 
cretly  dug  where  no  eye  could  discover,  till 
the  water  had  fingered  it  and  enlarged  the 
mischief  to  a  break. 

It  was  the  work  of  vermin,  and  as  such 
Travis  had  treated  his  prisoner.  Nancy 
felt  the  insult  as  keenly  as  she  abhorred  the 
cruelty.  She  fled,  hysterical  with  wrath 
and  despair  at  her  own  helplessness.  But 
while  she  made  ready  the  means  of  conso 
lation  at  home,  her  thinking  powers  came 
back,  and,  between  what  she  suspected  and 
what  she  remembered,  she  was  not  wholly 
in  the  dark  as  to  the  truth  between  her 
father  and  Travis. 

There  was  no  one  to  warm  Travis 's  blan 
kets,  when  he  fell  back  upon  camp  about 
daybreak,  reeking  with  cold  perspiration, 
soaked  with  ditch-water  and  sore  in  every 
muscle  from  his  frenzy  of  shoveling.  He 
had  had  no  supper  the  night  before;  his 
guest  had  eaten  all  the  cooked  food,  burned 
all  his  light-wood  kindlings,  and  forgotten 
to  cover  the  bread -pail,  and  his  bread 


228  THE   WATCHMAN. 

was  full  of  sand.  He  did  n't  think  much 
of  those  tenderfeet,  who  called  themselves 
ditch-men,  on  that  lower  division  where 
there  was  no  work  at  all  to  speak  of. 

He  began  —  worse  comfort  —  to  consider 
his  police  work  from  a  daughter's  point  of 
view.  Alas  for  himself  and  Nancy!  His 
idyl  of  the  ditch  was  shattered  like  the 
tender  sky-reflections  that  bloomed  on  its 
still  waters,  and  vanished  when  the  waters 
were  troubled.  His  own  thoughts  were  as 
that  roily  pool  where  he  had  ducked  the  old 
man  in  the  darkness.  He  overslept  him 
self,  after  thinking  he  should  not  sleep  at 
all,  and  started  down  his  beat  not  until 
noon  of  the  next  day.  Halfway  to  the 
bridge  on  the  ditch -bank  he  met  Nancy 
Lark.  She  gave  him  a  note,  which  he  dis 
mounted  to  take,  she  vouchsafing  no  greet 
ing,  not  even  a  look,  and  standing  apart 
while  he  read  it,  with  the  air  of  a  martyr 
to  duty. 

MR.  TRAVIS  [the  letter  ran],  —  I  am  a 
death-struck  man  in  consequence  of  your 
outrageous  treatment  of  me  last  evening. 
I  've  took  a  dum  chill,  and  it  has  hit  me  in 
the  vitals  through  standing  in  water  up  to 


THE  WATCHMAN.  229 

my  armpits.  If  you  think  your  fool  ditch 
is  worth  more  than  a  Human's  life,  though 
your  company's  enemy,  that's  for  you  to 
settle  as  you  can  when  the  time  comes 
you  '11  have  to.  I  don't  ask  any  favors. 
But  if  you  got  anny  desency  left  in  you 
through  working  for  that  fish-livered  com 
pany  of  bondholders  coming  out  here  to 
stomp  us  farmers  into  the  dirt,  you  will  call 
this  bizness  quits.  I  aint  in  no  shape  to 
fight  ditches  no  more.  You  have  put  me 
where  I  be,  and  the  less  said  on  both  sides 
the  better,  it  looks  to  me.  If  that 's  so  you 
can  say  so  by  word  or  writing.  I  should 
prefer  writing  as  I  aint  got  that  confidence 
I  might  have.  Yours  truly, 

SOLOMON  LAEK. 

"Miss  Nancy,"  said  Travis  gently,  "is 
your  father  very  sick  this  morning?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  Nancy  replied. 

"Have  you  sent  for  a  doctor?" 

"He  won't  let  me." 

"Have  you  read  this  letter?  " 

She  flashed  an  indignant  look  at  him. 

"I  wish  you  would,  then." 

"It  is  not  my  letter.  I  don't  know 
what 's  in  it,  and  I  don't  care  to  know." 


230  THE   WATCHMAN. 

"Do  you  know  what  your  father  was 
doing  in  the  ditch  last  night?" 

"Helping  you  to  mend  it,  at  the  risk  of 
his  life,  because  you  made  him,"  Nancy 
answered  quickly. 

"Helping  to  mend  a  hole  he  made  him 
self,  so  there  would  be  a  nice  little  break  in 
the  morning." 

The  subject  rested  there,  till  Travis, 
forced  to  take  the  defensive,  asked :  — 

"Do  you  believe  me?  " 

"Believe  what?" 

"  What  I  have  just  told  you  about  your 
father?  " 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it  makes  no  difference 
to  me.  I  knew  my  father  pretty  well  be 
fore  I  ever  saw  you.  If  you  think  he  was 
doing  that,  why,  I  suppose  you  will  have  to 
think  so.  But  even  if  he  was,  I  don't  call 
that  any  reason  you  should  half  drown  him, 
and  make  him  work  himself  to  death  be 
side." 

"But  the  water  was  warm!  And  I  did 
the  work.  What  was  it  to  tread  dirt  for  an 
hour  or  so  on  a  summer's  night?  Wasn't 
he  in  the  ditch  when  I  found  him  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Nancy. 
"I  know  that  you  kept  him  there." 


THE   WATCHMAN.  231 

"Well,  I  hope  he  '11  keep  out  of  the 
ditch  after  this.  Working  at  ditches  at 
night  isn't  good  for  his  health.  But  you 
needn't  be  alarmed  about  him  this  time; 
I  think  he  '11  recover.  But  remember  this: 
last  night  I  was  the  company's  watchman; 
I  had  an  ugly  piece  of  work  to  do  and  I 
did  it ;  but,  fair  play  or  foul,  whatever  may 
happen  between  your  father  and  me,  re-j 
member,  it  is  only  my  work,  and  you  arq 
not  in  it." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'm  in  it  if  my  father 
is,"  said  Nancy,  "and  that  is  something 
for  you  to  remember." 

"Oh,  hang  the  work  and  the  ditch  and 
all  the  ditches!  "  thought  Travis;  yet  it  was 
the  ditch  that  had  put  color  and  soul  and 
meaning  into  his  life,  —  that  had  given  him 
sight  of  Nancy.  And  it  was  not  his  work 
nor  his  convictions  about  it  that  stood  be 
tween  them  now;  it  was  her  woman's  con 
tempt  for  justice  and  reason  where  her  feel 
ings  were  concerned.  The  case  was  simple 
as  Nancy  saw  it ;  too  simple,  for  it  left  him 
out  in  the  cold.  He  would  have  had  it 
complicated  by  a  little  more  feeling  in  his 
direction. 

"Well,   have  I  got  your  answer?"  she 


232  THE  WATCHMAN. 

asked.  "Father  said  I  was  to  bring  an 
answer,  but  not  to  let  you  come." 

"He  need  not  be  afraid,"  said  Travis 
bitterly.  "If  he  will  leave  my  ditch-banks 
alone,  I  shall  not  meddle  with  him.  Tell 
him,  if  there  are  no  more  breaks  there  will 
be  nothing  to  report.  This  break  is  mended 
—  the  break  in  the  ditch,  I  mean." 

"Then  you  will  not  tell?"  Nancy  stole 
a  look  at  him  that  was  half  a  plea. 

"You  would  even  promise  to  like  me  a 
little,  wouldn't  you,  if  you  couldn't  get 
the  old  man  off  any  other  way?  "  he  mocked 
her  sorrowfully.  "  Well,  I  had  rather  have 
you  hate  me  than  stoop  to  coax  me,  as  I  've 
seen  girls  do  "  — 

He  might  be  satisfied,  she  passionately 
answered;  she  hated  him  enough.  She 
hated  his  work,  and  the  hateful  way  he  did 
it. 

"You  are  an  unmerciful  man!"  she  ac 
cused  him,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.  "You 
don't  know  the  trouble  my  father  has  had; 
how  many  years  he  has  worked,  with  no 
thing  but  his  hands;  and  now  your  com 
pany  comes  and  claims  the  water,  and  turns 
the  river,  that  belongs  to  everybody,  into 
their  big  ditch.  I  'd  like  to  know  how 
1 


THE   WATCHMAN.  233 

they  came  to  own  this  river!  And  when 
they  have  got  it  all  in  their  ditch,  all  the 
little  ditches  and  the  ponds  will  go  dry. 
We  were  here  years  before  any  of  you  ever 
thought  of  coming,  or  knew  there  was  a 
country  here  at  all.  It's  claim- jumping; 
and  not  a  cent  will  they  pay,  and  laugh  at 
us  besides,  and  call  us  mossbacks.  I  don't 
blame  my  father  one  bit,  if  he  did  break 
the  ditch.  If  you  are  here  to  watch,  then 
watch !  —  watch  me !  Perhaps  you  think 
I  've  had  a  hand  in  your  breaks  ?  " 

Travis  turned  pale.  He  had  made  the 
mistake  of  trying  to  reason  with  Nancy, 
and  now  he  felt  that  he  must  go  on,  in  jus 
tice  to  his  case,  though  she  was  far  away 
from  all  his  arguments,  rapt  in  the  grief, 
the  wrath,  the  conviction,  of  her  plea. 

"You  talk  as  women  talk  who  only  hear 
one  side,"  he  replied.  "But  you  people 
down  here  don't  know  the  company's  inten 
tions;  they  don't  ask,  and  when  they  do 
they  won't  believe  what  they  are  told. 
That  talk  against  companies  is  an  old  poli 
ticians'  drive.  This  country  is  too  big  for 
single  men  to  handle ;  companies  save  years 
of  waiting.  This  one  will  bring  the  rail 
roads  and  the  markets,  and  boom  up  the 


234  THE   WATCHMAN. 

price  of  land.  The  ditch  your  father  hates 
so  will  make  him  a  rich  man  in  five  years, 
if  he  does  nothing  but  sit  still  and  let  it 
come. 

"As  for  water,  why  do  you  cry  before 
;  you  are  hurt?  Nobody  can  steal  a  river. 
That  is  more  politicians'  talk,  to  make  out 
they  are  the  settlers'  friends.  We  are  the 
settlers'  friends,  because  we  are  the  friends 
of  the  country's  boom;  it  can't  boom  with 
out  us.  Why  should  /  believe  in  this  com 
pany  ?  I  'm  a  poor  man,  a  settler  like  your 
father.  I  've  got  land  of  my  own,  but  I 
can  see  we  farmers  can't  do  everything  for 
ourselves;  it's  cheaper  to  pay  a  company 
to  help  us.  They  are  just  peddlers  of  water, 
and  we  buy  it.  Who  owns  the  other,  then? 
Don't  we  own  them  just  as  much  as  they 
own  us? 

"Come,  if  you  can't  feel  it's  so,  leave 
hating  us  at  least  till  we  have  done  all 
these  things  you  accuse  us  of.  Wait  till 
we  take  all  the  water  and  ruin  your  land. 
Most  of  these  farmers  along  the  river  have 
got  too  much  water ;  they  are  ruining  their 
own  land.  So  I  tell  your  father,  but  he 
thinks  he  knows  it  all." 

"He  is  some  older  than  you  are,  any 
how." 


THE   WATCHMAN.  235 

"He  is  too  old  to  be  working  nights  in 
ditches.  Tell  him  so  from  me,  will  you?" 

"Oh,  I  '11  tell  him!  I  don't  think  you 
will  be  troubled  much  with  us  around  your 
ditch,  after  this.  I  went  to  the  bridge  last 
night  because  I  thought  you  were  nice, 
and  a  friend.  I  had  a  respect  for  you 
more  than  for  any  of  the  others.  I  might 
have  come  to  think  better  of  the  ditch  ; 
but  I  've  had  all  the  ditch  I  want,  and  all 
the  watchmen.  Never,  till  I  die,  shall  I 
forget  how  my  father  looked,"  she  passion 
ately  returned  to  the  charge.  "An  old 
man  like  him!  Why  didn't  you  put  me 
in  and  make  me  tread  dirt  for  you?  The 
water  was  warm ;  and  I  'm  enough  better 
able  than  he  was!  " 

"  I  '11  get  right  down  here  and  let  you 
tread  on  me,  and  be  proud  to  have  you,  if 
it  will  cure  the  sight  of  what  you  saw  me 
do  last  night.  I  was  mad,  don't  you  un 
derstand?  I  have  to  answer  for  all  this 
foolishness  of  your  father's,  remember.  It 
had  to  be  stopped." 

"Was  there  no  way  to  stop  it  but  half 
drowning  him,  and  insulting  him  besides?" 

"Yes,  there  is  another  way;  inform  the 
company,  and  have  him  shut  up  in  the  Pen. 


236  THE  WATCHMAN. 

/thought  I  let  the  old  man  off  pretty  easy. 
But  if  you  prefer  the  other  way,  why,  next 
time  there  's  a  break,  we  can  try  it." 

"I'm  sure  we  ought  to  thank  you  for 
your  kindness,"  said  Nancy.  "And  if  we 
are  Companied  out  of  house  and  home,  and 
father  made  a  criminal,  we  shall  thank  you 
still  more.  Good-morning." 

Their  eyes  met  and  hers  fell.  She  turned 
away,  and  he  remounted  and  rode  on  up 
the  ditch,  angry,  as  a  man  can  be  only  with 
one  he  might  have  loved,  down  to  those 
dregs  of  bitterness  that  lurk  at  the  bottom 
of  the  soundest  heart. 


III. 

He  was  but  an  idle  watchman  all  that 
day,  so  sure  he  was  that  the  ditch  was  right 
and  Solomon  the  author  of  all  his  troubles ; 
and  Solomon  was  "fixed"  at  last.  Weari 
ness  overcame  him,  and  at  the  end  of  his 
beat  he  slept,  under  the  lee  of  the  ditch - 
bank,  instead  of  returning  to  his  camp. 

Next  morning  he  was  riding  along  at  his 
usual  pace  when  it  struck  him  how  incredi 
bly  the  ditch  had  fallen.  The  line  of  silt 
that  marked  the  water's  normal  depth  now 


THE   WATCHMAN.  237 

stood  exposed  and  dry,  full  two  feet  above 
its  running,  and  the  pulse  of  the  current 
had  weakened  as  though  it  were  ebbing 
fast. 

He  put  his  horse  to  a  run,  and  lightened 
ship  as  he  went,  casting  off  his  sack  of  oats, 
then  his  coat  and  such  tools  as  he  could 
spare;  he  might  have  been  traced  to  the 
scene  of  disaster  by  his  impedimenta  strew 
ing  the  ditch-bank. 

The  water  had  had  hours  the  start  of 
him ;  its  work  was  sickening  to  behold.  A 
part  of  the  bank  had  gone  clean  out,  and 
the  ditch  was  returning  to  the  river  by  way 
of  Solomon  Lark's  alfalfa  fields.  The 
homestead  itself  was  in  danger. 

He  cut  sage-brush  and  tore  up  tules  by 
the  roots,  and  piled  them  as  a  wing-dam 
against  the  outer  bank,  and  heaped  dirt 
like  mad  upon  the  mats;  and  as  he  worked, 
alone,  where  forty  men  were  needed,  came 
Nancy,  with  glowing  face,  flying  down  the 
ditch-bank,  calling  the  word  of  exquisite 
relief :  — 

"I  've  shut  off  the  water.  Was  that 
right?" 

Right!  He  had  been  wishing  himself 
two  men,  nay,  three :  one  at  the  bank,  and 


238  THE  WATCHMAN. 

one  at  the  gates,  and  one  carrying  word  to 
Finlayson. 

"Can  I  do  anything  else?  " 

"Yes;  make  Finlayson's  camp  quick  as 
you  can,"  Travis  panted  over  a  shovelful 
of  dirt  he  was  heaving. 

"Yes;  what  shall  I  tell  him?  " 

"Tell  him  to  send  up  everything  he  has 
got;  every  man  and  team  and  scraper." 

Nancy  was  gone,  but  in  a  few  moments 
she  was  back  again,  wringing  her  hands, 
and  as  white  as  a  cherry-blossom. 

"The  water  is  all  down  round  the  house, 
and  father  is  alone  in  bed  crying  like  a 
child." 

"There  's  nothing  to  cry  about  now. 
You  turned  off  the  water ;  see,  it  has  almost 
stopped." 

"Can  I  leave  him  with  you?" 

"Great  Scott!  I  '11  take  care  of  him! 
But  go,  there  's  a  blessed  girl.  You  will 
save  the  ditch." 

Nancy  went,  covering  the  desert  miles 
as  a  bird  flies;  she  exulted  in  this  chance 
for  reparation.  But  long  after  Finlayson's 
forces  had  arrived  and  gone  to  work,  she 
came  lagging  wearily  homeward,  all  of  a 
color,  herself  and  the  pony,  with  the  yellow 


THE   WATCHMAN.  239 

road.  She  had  refused  a  fresh  horse  at  the 
ditch-camp,  and,  sparing  the  whip,  reached 
home  not  until  after  dark. 

Her  father's  excitement  in  his  hours  of 
loneliness  had  waxed  to  a  pitch  of  childish 
frenzy.  He  wept,  he  cursed,  he  counted 
his  losses,  and  when  his  daughter  said,  to 
comfort  him,  "Why,  father,  surely  they 
must  pay  for  this!  "  he  threw  himself  about 
in  his  bed  and  gave  way  to  lamentations  in 
which  the  secret  of  his  wilduess  came  out. 
He  had  done  the  thing  himself;  and  he 
dared  not  risk  suspicion,  and  the  investiga 
tion  that  would  follow  a  heavy  claim  for 
damages. 

Nancy  could  not  believe  him.  "Father, 
do  be  quiet;  you  did  n't  do  any  such  thing," 
she  insisted.  "How  could  you,  when  I 
know  you  have  n't  stirred  out  of  this  bed 
since  night  before  last?  Hush,  now;  you 
are  dreaming;  you  are  out  of  your  head." 

"I  guess  I  know  what  I  done.  I  ain't 
crazy,  and  I  ain't  a  fool.  I  made  this  hole 
first,  before  he  caught  me  at  the  upper  one. 
I  made  this  one  to  keep  him  busy  on  his 
way  up,  so  's  the  upper  one  could  get  a 
good  start.  The  upper  one  would  n't  'a' 
hurt  us.  It 's  jest  like  my  cussed  luck!  I 


240  THE   WATCHMAN. 

knew  it  was  a-comin',  but  I  did  n't  think  I  'd 
get  it  like  this.  It  's  all  his  fault,  the  great 
lazy  loafer,  sleepin'  at  the  bottom  of  his 
beat,  'stead  o'  comin'  up  as  he  'd  ought  to 
have  done  last  evening.  He  wasted  the 
whole  night,  —  and  calls  himself  a  watch 
man!" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  it,"  Nancy  cried 
excitedly.  "I'm  just  glad  we  are  washed 
out,  and  I  hope  this  will  end  it! "  and  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

She  sat  by  herself,  weeping  and  storming, 
in  the  dark  little  shed -room. 

"Nancy!"  she  heard  her  father  calling, 
"Nancy,  child!  .  .  .  Where's  that  gal 
taken  herself  off  to?  .  .  .  Are  you  a-settin' 
up  your  back  on  account  of  that  ditch?  If 
you  are,  you  ain't  no  child  of  mine.  .  .  . 
I  'm  dum  sorry  I  let  on  a  word  to  her  about 
it.  How  do  I  know  but  she  's  off  with  it 
now,  to  that  watchman  feller.  I  '11  be  put 
in  the  papers  —  an  old  man  informed  on  by 
his  darter,  and  he  on  his  last  sick  bed !  .  .  . 
Nancy,  I  say,  where  be  you  a-hidin'  your 
self?  " 

Nancy  returned  to  her  forlorn  charge, 
and  after  a  while  the  old  man  fell  asleep. 
She  put  out  the  lamp,  for  she  could  see  to 


THE  WATCHMAN.  241 

move  about  the  room  by  the  light  of  the 
sage-brush  bonfires  that  flared  along  the 
ditch,  lighting  the  men  and  teams,  all  Fin- 
layson's  force,  at  work  upon  the  broken 
banks. 

The   sight   was   wild   and    alluring;    she   • 
went  out  to  watch  the  strange  army  of  shad 
ows    shifting  and    intermingling  against   a  , 
wall  of  flame. 

There  was  a  distressful  space  to  cross,  of 
sand  and  slippery  mud  and  drowned  vegeta 
tion,  including  the  remains  of  her  garden; 
the  look  of  everything  was  changed.  Only 
the  ditch  -  bank  against  the  reddened  sky 
supplied  the  usual  landmark.  Its  crest 
was  black  with  shovelers,  and  up  and  down 
in  lurid  light  climbed  the  scraper-teams; 
climbed  and  dumped,  and  dropped  over 
the  bank  to  climb  again,  like  figures  in  a 
stage  procession.  There  was  a  bedlam  roar 
and  crackle  of  pitchy  fires,  rattle  of  har 
ness,  clank  of  scraper-pans,  shouts  of  men  - 
to  the  cattle,  oaths  and  words  of  command; 
and  this  would  go  forward  unceasingly  till 
the  banks  held  water.  And  what  was  the 
use  of  contending? 

Nancy  felt  bitterly  the  insignificance  of 
such  small  scattered  folk  as  her  father,  pit- 


242  THE  WATCHMAN. 


i 


jtful  even  in  their  spite.     Their  vengeance 

as  like  the  malice  of  field-mice  or  rabbits, 
which  the  farmers  fenced  out  of  their  fields 
into  the  desert  where  they  belonged.  What 
could  such  as  they  do  either  to  help  or 
hinder  this  invincible  march  of  capital  into 
the  country  where  they,  with  untold  hard 
ships,  had  located  the  first  claims?  And 
some  of  them  were  ready  enough,  for  a 
little  temporary  relief,  to  part  with  their 
birthright  to  these  clever  sons  of  Jacob. 

"Out  we  go,  to  find  some  other  wilder 
ness  for  them  to  take  away  from  us !  We 
are  only  mossbacks,"  said  the  daughter  of 
Esau. 

As  she  spoke,  half  aloud  to  herself,  a 
man  rushed  past  her  down  the  bank,  flat 
tened  himself  on  his  hands,  laid  his  face  to 
the  water,  and  drank  and  paused  to  pant, 
and  drank  again,  while  she  could  have 
counted  a  score.  Then  he  lifted  his  head, 
sighed,  and  stretched  himself  back  with  a 
groan  of  complete  exhaustion. 

The  firelight  touched  his  face,  and  showed 
her  Travis:  haggard,  hollow-eyed,  soaked 
with  ditch-water,  and  matted  with  mud, 
looking  as  if  he  had  been  dragged  bodily 
through  the  ditch-bank,  like  thread  through 
a  piece  of  cloth. 


THE   WATCHMAN.  243 

'Nancy  did  not  try  to  avoid  him. 

"Oh,  is  it  you?"  he  marveled,  softly 
smiling  up  at  her.  "What  a  splendid  ride 
you  made !  Did  nobody  thank  you  ?  Fin- 
lay  son  said  he  could  n't  find  you  when  he 
was  leaving  camp." 

Nancy  answered  not  a  word;  she  was 
trembling  so  that  she  feared  to  betray  her 
self  by  speaking. 

"I  was  coming  to  say  good-by,  when  I 
had  washed  my  face,"  he  continued.  "I 
got  my  time  to-night." 

" Your  time?" 

"My  time-check.  They  are  going  to  put 
another  man  in  my  place.  So  you  need  n't 
hate  me  any  longer  on  account  of  the  ditch ; 
you  can  transfer  all  that  to  the  next  fel 
low." 

"Is  n't  that  just  like  them?  They  never 
can  do  anything  fair!  " 

"Like  who?  Do  you  suppose  I  'm  going 
to  kick  about  it  ?  The  only  wonder  is  they 
kept  me  on  so  long." 

Every  word  of  Travis 's  was  a  knife  in 
Nancy's  conscience,  to  say  nothing  of  her 
pride.  She  hugged  her  arms  in  her  shawl, 
and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro.  Travis 
crawled  up  the  bank  a  little  way  further, 


244  THE   WATCHMAN. 

and  stretched  himself  humbly  beside  her. 
The  dark  shadows  under  his  aching  eyes 
started  a  pang  of  pity  in  the  girl's  heart, 
sore  beset  as  she  was  with  troubles  of  her 
own. 

"I  'm  glad  it  's  duskish,"  he  remarked, 
"so  you  can't  see  the  sweet  state  I'm  in. 
I  'm  all  over  top-soil.  You  might  rent  me 
to  a  Chinaman  for  twenty-five  dollars  an 
acre;  and  I  don't  need  any  irrigating 
either." 

An  irresponsible  laugh  from  Nancy  was 
followed  by  a  sob.  Then  she  gathered  her 
self  to  speak. 

"See  here,  do  you  want  to  stay  on  this 
ditch?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  I  wanted  to  stay  till  I 
had  straightened  out  my  own  record,  and 
shown  what  the  ditch  can  do.  But  no 
management  under  heaven  could  stand  such 
work  as  this." 

"Then  stay,  if  you  want  to.  You  have 
only  to  say  the  word.  You  said  you  'd  in 
form  if  there  was  a  next  time,  and  there  is. 
Father  did  it.  He  made  this  break,  too; 
he  made  them  both  the  same  night,  and 
did  n't  dare  to  tell  of  this  one.  Now,  go 
and  clear  yourself  and  get  back  your  beat." 


THE  WATCHMAN.  245 

"Are  you  sure  of  this  you  are  telling 
me?" 

"Well,  I  guess  so.  It  isn't  the  sort  of 
thing  I  'd  be  likely  to  make  up.  And  I 
say  you  can  tell  if  you  want  to.  I  make 
you  a  present  of  the  information.  If  father 
isn't  willing  to  take  the  consequences,  I 
am;  and  they  half  belong  to  me.  I  won't 
have  anybody  sheltering  us,  or  losing  by  us. 
We  have  got  no  quarrel  with  you." 

"That  is  brave  of  you.  I  wish  it  was 
something  more  than  brave,"  sighed  Travis. 
"But  I  want  it  all  myself.  I  can't  spare 
this  information  to  the  company.  You 
didn't  do  it  for  them,  did  you?" 

"When  I  go  telling  on  my  father  to  save 
a  ditch,  I  guess  it  will  be  after  now,"  said 
Nancy.  "If  that  rich  company,  with  all  its 
men  and  watchmen  and  teams  and  money, 
can't  protect  itself  from  one  poor  old 
man  " 

"Never  mind  the  company,"  said  Travis. 
"What  's  mine  is  mine.  This  word  you 
gave  to  me,  it  doesn't  belong  to  my  em 
ployers.  You  have  saved  me  to  myself; 
now  I  shall  not  go  kicking  myself  for  sleep 
ing  that  night  on  my  beat.  It 's  not  so  bad 
—  oh,  not  half  so  bad  —  for  me !  " 


246  THE  WATCHMAN. 

"Then  go  tell  them,  and  get  the  credit 
for  it.  Don't  you  mean  to  ?  " 

She  could  not  see  him  smile.  "When  I 
tell,  you  will  hear  of  it." 

"But  you  talked  about  your  record." 

"I  shall  have  to  go  to  work  and  make  a 
new  record.  Ah,  if  you  would  be  as  kind 
as  you  are  brave !  Was  it  all  just  for  pride 
you  told  me  this?  Don't  you  care,  not  the 
least  bit,  about  my  part  —  that  I  am  down 
and  out  of  everything?" 

"It 's  your  own  fault,  then.  I  have  told 
you  how  you  can  clear  yourself  and  stay." 

"  And  lose  my  chance  with  you !  I  was 
thinking  of  coming  back,  some  day,  to  tell 
you  —  what  you  must  know  already.  Nancy, 
you  do  know !  " 

"You  forget,"  shivered  Nancy;  "I  am 
the  daughter  of  the  man  you  called  "  — 

"Is  that  fair  —  to  bring  that  up  now?" 

"You  mustn't  deceive  yourself.  There 
are  some  things  that  can't  be  forgotten." 

"How  did  I  know  what  I  was  saying? 
A  man  isn't  always  responsible." 

"I  heard  you,"  said  Nancy.  "There  are 
things  we  say  when  we  are  raging  mad  at  a 
person,  and  there  are  things  we  say  when 
we  think  them  the  dirt  under  our  feet. 


THE  WATCHMAN.  247 

You  kept  him  down  with  your  dirt-shovel, 
and  you  called  him — what  I  can't  ever 
forget." 

"And  is  this  the  only  hitch  between  us?  " 

"I  should  think  it  was  enough.  Who 
despises  my  father  despises  me." 

"But  I  do  not  despise  him,"  Travis  did 
not  scruple  to  assert.  "The  quarrel  was 
not  mine ;  and  I  'm  not  a  ditch-man  any 
longer.  I  will  apologize  to  your  father." 

"Oh,  I  know  it  costs  you  nothing  to 
apologize.  You  don't  mind  father  —  an 
old  man  like  him!  You'd  take  him  in, 
and  give  him  his  meals,  and  pat  him  on  the 
head  as  you  would  the  house-dog  that  bites 
because  he  's  old  and  cross.  Well,  I  '11  let 
you  know  I  don't  want  you  to  forgive  him, 
and  apologize,  and  all  that  stuff.  I  want 
you  to  get  even  with  him." 

"Be  satisfied,"  said  Travis.  "The  only 
count  I  have  against  your  father  is  through 
his  daughter.  There  is  no  way  for  me  to 
get  even  with  you.  And  when  you  have 
spoiled  a  man's  life  just  for  one  angry 
word  "  — 

"Not  angry,"  she  interrupted.  "I  could 
have  forgiven  you  that." 

"For  one  word,  then.     And  you  call  it 


248  THE  WATCHMAN. 

square  when  you  have  given  me  a  piece  of 
information  to  use  for  myself,  against  you ! 
I  will  go  back  now  and  go  to  work.  They 
can't  say  I  haven't  earned  my  wages  on 
this  beat." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  longing  to  gather 
her,  with  all  her  thorny  sweetness,  to  his 
breast;  but  her  attitude  forbade  him. 

"Can't  we  shake  hands?  "  he  said.  They 
shook  hands  in  silence,  and  he  went  back 
and  finished  the  night  in  the  ranks  of  the 
shovelers,  —  to  work  well,  to  love  well,  and 
to  get  his  discharge  at  last.  Yet  Travis 
was  not  sorry  that  he  had  taken  those  five 
miles  below  Glenn's  Ferry:  he  had  found 
something  to  work  for. 

The  company's  officials  marveled,  as  the 
.weeks  went  by,  that  nothing  was  heard  of 
1  Solomon  Lark.  He  had  ever  been  the 
sturdiest  beggar  for  damages  on  the  ditch. 
If  he  lacked  an  occasion  he  could  invent 
one;  he  was  known  to  be  a  fanatic  on  the 
subject  of  the  small  farmers'  wrongs:  yet 
now,  with  a  veritable  claim  to  sue  for,  the 
old  protestant  was  dumb.  Had  Solomon 
turned  the  other  cheek?  There  were  jokes 
about  it  in  the  office;  they  looked  to  have 
some  fun  with  Solomon  yet. 


THE  WATCHMAN.  249 

In  the  early  autumn  the  joking  ceased.  . 
There  was  a  final  reason  for  the  old  man's 
silence,  —  Solomon  was   dead.     His   ranch 
was  rented  to  a  Chinese  vegetable -gardener 
who  bought  water  from  the  ditch. 

The  company,  through  its  officials,  was 
disposed  to  recognize  this  unspoken  claim 
that  had  perished  on  the  lips  of  the  dead. 
They  made  an  estimate,  and  offered  Nancy 
Lark  a  fair  sum  in  consideration  of  her 
father's  losses  by  the  ditch. 

It  was  unusual  for  a  company  to  volun 
teer  a  settlement  of  this  kind;  it  was  still 
more  unusual  for  the  indemnity  to  be  re 
fused.  Nancy  declined,  by  letter,  first; 
then  the  manager  asked  her  to  call  at  the 
office.  She  did  not  come.  He  took  pains 
to  hunt  her  up  at  the  house  of  her  friends 
'in  town.  He  might  have  delegated  the 
call,  but  he  chose  to  make  it  in  person,  and  • 
was  struck  by  an  added  dignity,  a  finer  , 
beauty  in  the  saddened  face  of  the  girl 
whom  he  remembered  as  a  bit  of  a  rustic 
coquette. 

He  went  over  the  business  with  her.  She 
was  perfectly  intelligent  in  the  matter ;  there 
had  been  no  misunderstanding.  Why  then 
would  she  not  take  what  belonged  to  her  ? 


250  THE   WATCHMAN. 

Companies  were  not  in  the  habit  of  paying 
claims  that  were  claims  of  sentiment. 

"I  have  made  no  claim,"  said  Nancy. 

"But  you  have  one.  You  inherited  one. 
We  do  not  propose  to  rob  " 

She  put  out  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
appeal. 

"My  father  had  no  claim.  He  never 
made  one,  nor  meant  to  make  one.  I  am 
the  best  judge  of  what  belongs  to  me.  I 
don't  want  this  money,  and  I  will  never 
take  one  cent  of  it.  But  there  is  a  claim 
you  can  settle,  if  you  are  hunting  up  claims. 
It  won't  cost  you  anything,"  she  faltered, 
as  if  some  unguarded  impulse  had  hurried 
her  into  a  subject  that  she  hardly  knew  how 
to  go  on  with.  She  moved  her  chair  back 
a  little  from  the  light. 

"There  was  one  of  your  watchmen,  on 
the  Glenn's  Ferry  beat,  who  lost  his  place 
on  account  of  those  breaks  coming  one  after 
another  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  manager;  "there  were 
several  that  did.  Which  man  do  you  refer 
to?" 

The  name,  she  thought,  was  Travis.  Then, 
blushing,  she  spoke  out  courageously :  — 

"  It  was  Mr.  Travis.     He  was  discharged 


THE    WATCHMAN.  251 

just  after  the  big  break.  You  thought  it 
was  his  carelessness,  but  it  was  not.  I  am 
the  only  one  that  can  say  so,  and  I  know  it. 
You  lost  the  best  watchman  you  ever  had 
.on  the  ditch  when  you  took  his  name  off 
your  pay-roll.  He  worked  for  more  than 
just  his  money's  worth,  and  it  hurt  him  to 
lose  that  place." 

"Are  you  aware  that  he  made  the  worst 
record  of  any  man  on  the  line?" 

"I  don't  care  what  his  record  was;  he 
kept  a  good  watch.  It  's  no  concern  of 
mine  to  say  so,"  she  said.  Trembling  and 
red  and  white,  the  tears  shining  in  her  hon 
est  eyes,  she  persisted :  "  He  had  his  reasons 
for  never  explaining,  and  they  were  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of.  I  think  you  might  be 
lieve  me!  " 

"I  do,"  said  the  manager,  willing  to 
spare  her.  "I  will  attend  to  the  case  of 
Mr.  Travis  when  I  see  him.  I  do  not  think 
he  has  left  the  country.  In  fact,  he  was 
inquiring  about  you  only  the  other  day,  in 
the  office,  and  he  seemed  very  much  con 
cerned  to  hear  of  your  —  of  the  loss  you 
have  suffered.  Shall  I  say  that  you  spoke  a 
good  word  for  him?  " 

"You  need  not  do  that,"  she    answered 


252  THE   WATCHMAN. 

with  spirit.  "He  knows  whether  he  kept 
watch.  But  you  may  say  that  I  ask,  as  a 
favor,  that  he  will  answer  all  your  ques 
tions  ;  and  you  need  not  be  afraid  to  ques 
tion  him." 

Travis  was  given  back  his  beat,  but  no 
more  explicit  exoneration  would  he  accept. 
The  reason  of  his  reinstatement  was  not 
made  public,  and  naturally  there  was  gossip 
about  it  among  other  discharged  watchmen 
who  had  not  been  invited  to  try  again. 

Two  of  these  cynic  philosophers,  popu 
larly  known  as  sore-heads,  foregathered  one 
morning  at  Glenn's  Ferry  and  began  to 
discuss  the  management  and  the  ditch. 

"Travis  don't  seem  to  have  so  much 
trouble  with  the  water  this  year  as  he  had 
last,"  the  first  ex  -  watchman  remarked. 
"Used  to  get  away  with  him  on  an  average 
once  a  week,  so  I  hear." 

"He's  married  his  girl,"  the  other  ex 
plained  sarcastically.  "He  's  got  more 
time  to  look  after  the  ditch." 

There  is  no  sand,  now,  in  Travis 's  bread; 
the  prettiest  girl  on  the  ditch  makes  it  for 
him,  and  walks  beside  him  when  the  lights 
are  fair  and  the  shadows  long  on  the  ditch - 
bank.  And  it  is  a  pleasure  to  record  that 


THE   WATCHMAN.  253 

both  Nancy  and  the  ditch  are  behaving  as  | 
dutifully  as  girls  and  water  can  be  expected 
to   do,    when    taken  from    their    self -found 
paths  and  committed  to  the  sober  bounds  of 
responsibility. 

Flowers  bloom  upon  its  banks,  heaven  is 
reflected  in  its  waters,  fair  and  broad  are 
the  fertile  pastures  that  lie  beyond;  but  the 
best-trained  ditch  can  never  be  a  river,  no 
the  gentlest  wife  a  girl  again. 


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